


and i wonder if i ever cross your mind

by amorremanet



Series: a gnawing feeling leaves you quite unsure [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Addiction, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exes, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Allura/Keith (Voltron), Minor Keith/Regris (Voltron), Minor Lotor/Shiro (Voltron), Mutual Pining, N Things, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sendak/Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Relationship, Recovery, Reunions, Separations, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Slice of Life, Sobriety, Therapy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vomiting, it's complicated; see a/n's, more explanation for the kallura regreith shotor in the a/n's, twinganes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 77,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Mental health is difficult. So is building up a new life for yourself after losing someone you loved, never knowing whether or not he felt the same for you. While Shiro fights to get himself on the track to wellness and forgive himself for disappearing when Keith needed him, Keith pushes his own problems down and struggles with feeling like he’s going to ruin someone else, the way he thinks he did to Shiro. Through it all, they don’t realize how close they really are.Or: “10 times that Keith and Shiro miss each other + 1 time that they don’t.”Maybe he couldn’t be the version of himself who Keith deserved. Maybe he screwed up everything and let Keith slip away without letting him know how he felt about him, even if Shiro could only offer a pathetic ghost that maybe in its wildest dreams wanted to become something like love when it grew up — but the past is the past. No taking any of it back.…He almost doubles back to apologize, but if there’s any chance in Hell that he’s right about this? If there’s even a snowball’s chance in Tahiti that Keith can hear for sure that Shiro’s doing better? He can’t waste any time.





	1. Wednesday, December 4th, 2013

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoirSongbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirSongbird/gifts), [genovianprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genovianprince/gifts).



> **On the ships in this fic:** This is yet another installment of gratuitously self-indulgent backstory and world-building for my overgrown hurt/comfort monster, _[But boys spring infernal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574/)_. As such, the fic’s endgame couple is Sheith, and the two of them spend a lot of this fic thinking about each other and their relationship. However, the different scenes that make up this fic take place during the time that Keith and Shiro spent separated from each other, thinking that they’d probably never see each other again. Which changes by the end of the “one time when they don’t [miss each other].”
> 
> Because Keith and Shiro aren’t together for the bulk of this fic — and the times when they notice each other don’t end in a reunion until the last one — they are seen dating other people. Namely, Keith dates Allura and Shiro dates Lotor. Both of those relationships are explored in some depth (for better and sometimes for worse). Although both relationships end in break-ups, Keith and Shiro both have genuine romantic feelings for Allura and Lotor, respectively. Keith/Regris, on the other hand, have a bit of flirting, some relationship-building that isn’t inherently romantic, and Keith mentally referencing the fact that he’d sleep with Regris. By the time that _BBSI_ (and the last three pieces of this fic) happen, Keith and Regris _have_ slept together, but that hook-up isn’t depicted in this fic.
> 
>  _But_ I used the additional tags to note these relationships because:
> 
>   1. two of these relationships end in break-ups (though Keith and Allura stay friends afterward);  
> 
>   2. the third relationship doesn’t even hook up on-screen (seriously, the most that happens is either Regris comforting Keith on Election Night 2016, or Regris asking if Keith has ever bottomed for Allura in a painfully nerdy fashion);  
> 
>   3. these relationships are not the only relationships that receive focus in the fic (most of the relationships that get screen-time are fully platonic: Shiro & Ryou, Keith & Kolivan, Keith & Coran, Shiro & Ulaz, Shiro & Iverson, Keith + Rolo & Nyma, and Shiro + Hunk, Lance, and Pidge);  
> 
>     * That said: There are also references to Lance and Shiro platonically snogging each other in ch. 5.  
> 
>   4. Sheith is still the romantic endgame and both of them are hung up on each other, even though they don’t have any scenes together until right at the end; and…  
> 
>   5. Kallura, Regreith, and Shotor are definitely rare-pairs while Sheith definitely isn’t, and it felt kinda rude to tag this fic as any of them when it is ultimately a Sheith fic, above all else.
> 

> 
> As far as the timeline of this series goes, the overall fic spans from shortly after “[you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214)” up to the first chapter of _[But boys spring infernal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574/)_. References abound to events that are depicted or discussed in both those fics and “[nothing to keep me from the storm (today could be your day)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338717).”
> 
> Likewise, as with all of the other fics in this series: **PLEASE heed the tags on this fic because the lack of Archive warnings does not mean that it’s for everyone**. This fic deals with the long-term aftermath of abuse and substance abuse/addiction, as well as the myriad struggles that can come up while dealing with mental health issues (including but not limited to: the benefits and pitfalls of therapy, the struggle of opening up to your support network, what happens when your psych meds aren’t working right, trying to forgive yourself, and wanting closure but feeling like you can’t get it).
> 
> Also: the 2016 US Presidential Shit-Show is an explicit part of the story in chapter eight, which is set on Election Night. Although there is some pretty explicit discussion of the politics (not least because Kolivan is an activist and history professor), the fic’s primary focus is on what these issues mean for the characters personally (especially Keith, Shiro, and to a lesser extent Kolivan), and on how they react to the election. This isn’t a political essay; it’s a piece of fanfiction, period. If I wanted to write a political essay, I’d just copy-paste, “Fuck Trump” over and over and over for ten pages, in double-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman.
> 
> Finally, I shamelessly ripped off the title of this fic from “[Need You Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbq7ZM0du-c)” by Lady Antebellum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline-wise: This chapter is set not even three full months after the end of “[you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214).” Shiro has both been to rehab and had his first slip off the wagon (discussed at myriad points in _[But boys spring infernal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574/)_ , notably in chapter 17); he has also played a flirtatious game of “no lies” with Lotor and given him a blow-job (also discussed in ch. 17 of BBSI). Shiro’s still incredibly raw from everything, and he’s basically a mess.
> 
> As far as content warnings go: Shiro ends this chapter by getting triggered while he and Ryou are seeing _Frozen_ , and he is so viscerally upset by his memories of Sendak that he vomits in a trash can.
> 
> Also, a fair warning that applies to every chapter: This fic is made up of scenes like what Shiro means in BBSI when he refers to, “little moments that happen every day and don’t mean anything special until suddenly, they do.” It’s all very slice-of-life, and although several of the conversations themselves are significant enough that Keith and Shiro would remember them pretty easily, their near-misses with each other do not register so much for them. Because things seem more or less mundane, to them, and there’s enough time between the scenes that they don’t spot any kind of pattern.
> 
> Or, in so many words: you will probably end up screaming, “YOU FUCKING IDIOT” at Keith and/or Shiro during the course of this fic. Possibly multiple times. If you feel the need to do so, then by all means, have at them. You have my blanket authorial permission to yell at them as necessary. ♡

A sharp, crisp knock jerks Shiro out of not-quite-dozing. Trying to sigh, Shiro comes up with a groan. Vaguely, he wants to lob a pillow at the bedroom door. Somewhat less vaguely, he wants to cuss a blue streak. Especially after last weekend, Ryou has more than ample reason for doing away with his brother’s alleged right to privacy. Façades like knocking and pretending that Shiro gets to have any personal space are tedious formalities, at best.

At worst, they’re a gauzy veneer over top of a reality that leaves so, _so_ much to be desired.

“Hey, Kashi.” Ryou pokes his head in first, then invites himself to sit by Shiro’s hip. “You meet the dietician today?”

“Mmm, not sure. I met with _someone_. He actually might’ve been a wizard, though.”

A deep breath, and Ryou holds it for a count of ten. “Did you go to the appointment, yes or no.”

“Yeah, I went.” Huffing, Shiro shuts his eyes. “According to him, I’m all better. Just like that. Like _magic_.”

Part of Shiro wants to sit up — or at least prop himself up on his elbows — and look Ryou in the eye. He _should_ do that, because his brother deserves better from Shiro. After getting him out of Chicago, wrestling him into rehab and accepting that he has so many problems, dealing with the almost-daily calls that Shiro largely spent complaining about roommates or therapy or the holes in and failings of the Twelve-Step approach to recovery, taking Shiro in when he shouldn’t have needed to, handling all of Shiro’s _Moods_ , and so on? Ryou deserves a medal, not any of his big brother’s childish petulance.

Then again, Ryou deserves a brother who never would’ve made him deal with this garbage in the first place.

Still, Shiro cringes and has to force himself to explain: “Apparently, Ulaz and the shrinks in rehab were completely wrong. _Apparently_ , I don’t have an eating disorder anymore. Because I _can’t_ have an eating disorder. Because I’m a twenty-three-year-old, Japanese-American _guy_ , instead of a seventeen-year-old white girl. Even telling him I’m gay didn’t make him drop his line about, ‘No, you only lost so much weight because of the Vicodin’ and listen to me.”

Making a throaty, sympathetic noise, Ryou gently pats Shiro’s thigh. “I’m sorry, Kashi—”

“It’s not your fault. Dr. Troy recommended him. And I listened to her—”

“I’m not saying it’s my fault. Or yours. Or Dr. Troy’s. Or anybody’s, except his. But I’m still sorry you went through that.”

“Well, I’m sorry for how the weigh-in went today.”

Ryou’s fingers curl up in the spare, weathered denim of Shiro’s jeans. “Unless you punched that dietician or something? I don’t think you have anything to be sorry for. And I assume you didn’t punch him because I’m talking to you _here_ instead of a police holding cell.”

“Punching would’ve taken too much energy. Didn’t feel like it.” Kneading his temple, Shiro tries to keep breathing slowly, evenly. “First, I thought I had a good lunch with Lance and Hunk. But I still weighed less than I did when they let me out of the clinic. Then, he started in on like, ‘This is common with opiate abuse’ and I’m like, ‘Except that wasn’t the only factor here. Unless you wanna tell me it’s _not_ a problem that I feel compelled to go for three days on only water, coffee, green tea, and clear chicken broth. Because something inside of me is _broken_ and I think like it’s supposed to make me _feel_ good.’”

A gulping, quivering sound comes out of Ryou. In the hopes of comforting him, Shiro rubs his knee on Ryou’s back.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I know you hate hearing about this.”

“No, I don’t… I want you to feel like you can talk to me, Kashi- _niichan_. I just?” Ryou sighs. “I wish I knew how to help you.”

Quirking his shoulders, Shiro gropes for whatever he can find to say. “You’re doing the best you can. This is new to me too. Or treating it is. Instead of acting like everything’s fine.” He drags a hand up his forehead and back through his tousled black hair. His old undercut has long since grown out, and Shiro can’t say if he cares or not. “At least Aunt Satomi’s never had anyone refuse to believe her about _her_ eating disorder. Doesn’t help _me_ much, but… Y’know. One less person in this family suffering unnecessarily.”

“Yeah, well.” Ryou lets go of Shiro’s jeans, but keeps his hand splayed on Shiro’s leg. “I still wish that I felt more helpful.”

“You _are_ helpful—”

“And I wish I understood this more—”

“I don’t _expect_ you to understand it. Hell, I don’t even get it myself. Not all the time. Not even most of the time.”

“It still doesn’t feel good.” Rubbing Shiro’s thigh like he’s terrified of everything, Ryou takes a deep breath. Then, a second. A third doesn’t break the relative silence any better than the ones before it. But on the fourth— “You’ve always known what to do for me. Can’t I want to give you the same kind of help? Now, more than ever?”

 _Oh, Jesus_ — Shiro cringes at what Ryou has to say. Then, he winces harder from even thinking something like, _“Oh, Jesus”_ over it.

His eyelids creak open. God, he can’t do this to Ryou anymore. No more than he’s already done.

Getting himself off of his back takes more effort than it should. First, staring at the ceiling fan, Shiro has to summon the thought, _I’m going to sit up… I’m going to sit up… Ryou deserves better out of me, and I am going to sit up…_

Second, Shiro needs to break down that desire into the different steps. Worming along the mattress. Wriggling. Folding up his arms. Bending the leg that doesn’t have Ryou’s hand on it. Inhaling deeply, and then groaning as he pushes himself up. Between breaths, Shiro tongues at his lips. His tube of Dr. Pepper lip-chap waits on the bedside table, by his phone and his alarm clock. He’ll need to fully, properly sit up before he can grab it and apply a coat. But for the moment, Shiro tries to content himself with the progress he’s made.

Some pathetic excuse for progress, though. Not counting his three t-shirts, his beat-up flannel, his black zip-up hoodie, and his jeans, he’s barely hauling around a hundred-and-forty-three pounds anymore. Before rehab, he could still bench-press nearly three-hundred, on a good day. Why does propping himself up leave him feeling like he’s drowning on dry land? Like he’s gasping for air and coming up with as good as nothing?

Since he’s paused, though, Shiro takes a good look at Ryou. Slouching makes his belly round out more than it does already, pressing against his casual black button-up and edging onto his thighs. Behind his glasses, his grey eyes zero in on Shiro’s chest. Or maybe his stomach. Or maybe just where Shiro’s at in the process of sitting up, rather than anything about Shiro’s body. Rapt, Ryou doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not staring, and Shiro almost thanks him for that. There’s no sense in acting like Ryou doesn’t have an interest in whether or not Shiro can do anything on his own or whatever this is.

“Hey, so,” Ryou cuts in as Shiro’s trying to steady himself and get the rest of the way up. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

“I’m not proud of me.” Shiro flinches as soon as he says so, then gives Ryou an apologetic pout. “But yeah, I know you are.”

“Well, I was thinking, like…” He shrugs, fails to look casual about it. “Why don’t we do something fun tonight?”

“You mean like the same thing we do every Wednesday night, Pinky? Try to take over the world?” Which gets a huff of amusement out of Ryou, but Shiro can’t match him on that, much less laugh at his own bad joke. Takes too much effort to sit up. “Y’know, by which I mean, like? Have dinner together, go over what I most need to discuss with Ulaz tomorrow, and turn in early?”

Shaking his head, Ryou puts on a smile that’s so hopeful, Shiro’s rib-cage clenches up around itself. Like his bones want to puncture his lungs and stab him in the heart. His stomach writhes and protests as if someone’s jabbing a knife in him again. Except there’s no oversized skinhead with a switchblade, and no guys getting jumped in a grungy alley outside a bar in Chicago, and no Mark yelling at Shiro to hang back, and no Keith chasing after Shiro, jumping on a guy who’s got to be almost twice his size—

“I was thinking more like a movie?” Ryou shrugs, strains to keep that smile plastered on. His lips quiver like they’re two seconds from ripping apart. Like they could snap. “I mean, there probably won’t be too many people at the theatre tonight?”

Nodding, Shiro heaves a sigh and thrusts a hand at Ryou. He needs to sit like an adult already. If getting there takes his brother yanking him up — if it takes Shiro asking for help that he _shouldn’t need_ — then so be it.

As he’s ruffling his hands over his hair, Ryou prods with, “There anything you want to see?”

“I mean, I’m excited about _Catching Fire_.” _As much as I’ve been excited about anything, lately._ “But I’m also—” _Dead tired. No. Wait. Ryou won’t like that turn of phrase, not after what I did—_ “I’m tired after that appointment? And maybe I’ll feel better with some dinner? But I still want to have a clearer head for that one?”

Rubbing both hands over the bridge of his nose, Shiro tries, “There’s a new Marvel movie out, right?”

“Well, yeah, but… It’s a Thor movie. And you know how I feel about Loki.”

“Deeply frustrated over how attractive you can find Tom Hiddleston while still hating his character.”

Ryou purses his lips and his cheeks twinge pink. “…Anyway, I was thinking more like Disney?”

Bottling up a sigh, Shiro gives his brother a long, flat _Look_. “I really don’t know if I can handle some story about how true, romantic love conquers all, and fixes everything, and you can fix everybody’s problems, fix everything in the entire kingdom, by making two stupidly attractive, wealthy, noble-blooded white people kiss each other.”

“That’s not what _Frozen_ is about, though.”

“Wait, _Frozen_?” Scrunching up his nose at Ryou’s enthusiastic nodding, Shiro asks, “You mean that adaptation of _The Snow Queen_ that doesn’t include any of what Hans Christian Andersen wrote? And doesn’t really adapt _The Snow Queen_?”

“So don’t think of it as an adaptation, if that bothers you. Think of it as its own story.” Going wide-eyed and two steps off from outright pleading, Ryou scoots closer. He lays a hand over Shiro’s bare foot and squeezes his ankle. “Lauren, one of Dr. Iverson’s other TA’s? She saw it over the weekend. She said that it’s really cute, and it doesn’t focus on the main princess’s love life. It’s more like…”

Trembling, he insists, “The focus is on the familial love. Between the princess and her sister.”

Given the Disney Corporation’s track record, that sounds like a recipe for a train-wreck. But Ryou’s staring at him so _expectantly_ — with so much hope that Shiro’s actions lately haven’t earned — and Shiro can’t refuse.

Normal brothers can go to the movies with each other, he reminds himself as Ryou helps pull him off the bed. As he puts on his lip-chap and looks around for where he tossed his socks, Shiro tells himself that everything will be fine. Maybe he couldn’t be the version of himself who Keith deserved. Maybe he screwed up everything and let Keith slip away without letting him know how he felt about him, even if Shiro could only offer a pathetic ghost that maybe in its wildest dreams wanted to become something like love when it grew up — but the past is the past. No taking any of it back. No retracting anything that he’s done.

Tossing on his heavy winter coat, Shiro tells himself to suck up everything he has. At least he can still be the brother that Ryou deserves. All he needs to do is put in a bit of effort, the way he should’ve done _before_ he let everything fall apart so badly.

*** * ***

Thankfully, Ryou’s right about the place he picks not being overly crowded. Not that Shiro _likes_ the reason why he craves that relative emptiness — it’s stupid to think any of these strangers can tell what he ate for dinner, much less that they care — but considering that _Frozen_ just came out last week? It’s nice that he and Ryou have so much room to themselves the theatre.

Only one other patron looks at them oddly, a young, pink-cheeked woman with auburn hair and two kids hanging off her arms. She furrows her brow as Shiro and Ryou round the corner into the theatre. One of the kids whispers at her and as Shiro trudges after Ryou, she squints in their direction. As they head for some seats about halfway up the stairs but close to the aisle, she fixes her gaze on Shiro specifically. Something makes her lips quiver, makes her eyes try to bug out of her skull — but as she pets the tiny human’s hair, she sets her jaw. The scowling, dirty _Look_ she gives him make Shiro’s stomach turn as if he could be sick right here, right now.

Then again, he can’t blame her. A set of twenty-something twins coming to a Disney movie without any kids in tow? They must look like freaks. Or worse, like the sort of guys who _would_ deliberately hurt children.

At least the lights go down when she turns back to glare at Shiro, which makes her face the screen instead of… whatever else she thinks she’s doing. With a sigh, Shiro pushes up the armrest that rests between his seat and Ryou’s. He slouches into Ryou’s side and drops his head to his brother’s shoulder, doesn’t protest when Ryou insists on hugging him. Getting mistaken for child molesters definitely isn’t what Ryou would’ve wanted on this outing, so he needs a reminder that it’s not his fault. Besides, movie theaters tend to run cold while Ryou constantly has body heat to spare.

Much as he prefers the more traditional Disney animation, Shiro can’t deny that _Frozen_ looks quite nice. Cute characters, good-looking set-pieces, every pixel clearly designed to at least give off the appearance of having been made with love. The opening song doesn’t tell him as much as he’d like — it doesn’t even introduce the princess or what her central emotional conflict is supposed to be — but hey, a largely tangential opening song worked for _The Little Mermaid_.

Idly, Shiro pokes at the tub of popcorn in Ryou’s lap, but he doesn’t take any of it. Not yet. He doesn’t feel ready. Not for the popcorn, or for the soft pretzel Ryou’s holding, or for the box of chocolate nonpareils that Shiro set on top of their coats, in the seat on his other side. Maybe Shiro will have some later, once he’s gotten more acclimated to the theater and stopped feeling like a total stranger wants to put him under a microscope.

Not ten minutes in and Ryou tightens his grip on Shiro’s shoulder. The older princess — the blonde one — slinks away into her private bedroom. Right as she goes to shut the door, she throws a sad expression toward her ginger-haired younger sister. As they pout at each other like it’s killing them to be so separated while living in the same palace, their father goes on about how they need to hide the older one away from the entire world, including said beloved sister.

Which kicks Shiro in the chest a little, because he’s sequestered himself like that so often lately. For no good reason, either. Not relative to these princesses, anyway. The blonde one lost control of her ice magic and could’ve killed the ginger one.

All Shiro has by way of excuses? Is that he’s a disaster and he’s tired all the time, and Ryou deserves so much better.

With a tinkling piano line, another song starts up. The younger sister pleads at a closed door for the older one to come build a snowman, and Shiro swallows thickly. His fingers clench hard around the bottle of water that he got when Ryou insisted on snacks and drinks — which Shiro relented about because that’s part of going to the movies like normal human beings who don’t need to meditate during mealtimes, mentally giving themselves permission to eat anything. Like normal people who don’t check the windows every night, multiple times a night, just to make sure that the locks are still done up and certain people haven’t tracked them down, haven’t followed them to Massachusetts from Chicago with a mind to reclaim them.

 _Normal_ brothers let their siblings get them SnoCaps, which they always used to love before they ran themselves into the ground. If Ryou had a _normal_ brother, he’d have been able to put more fake-butter and salt on the popcorn, the way he likes. Instead, he has a skinny, shivering mess who’s sending loud, crackling noises through the theatre by gripping his water bottle far too tightly. In all likelihood, Shiro’s filled the theater with a sound like firecrackers. Thank God he can’t see the auburn-haired woman or the kids she has with her, because she’s probably staring daggers in his direction and getting ready to have security throw them out.

Ryou’s giving Shiro a run for his money, though. As the princesses go on with their song about building a snowman, Ryou huddles Shiro closer, until there’s barely room enough for breath between their bodies. Like he’s trying to attach Shiro to his side with super-glue. His hand shakes and his fingers clamp down so hard when the King and Queen shove off on some two-week trip, Ryou could easily leave bruises.

Then, the King and Queen die. A storm hits and their ship sinks to the tune of melancholy, whining string music because loving parents almost never get to live in Disney princess movies. Swallowing thickly, Shiro makes himself keep breathing. Mom and Dad have been gone for almost five years, now. Besides, Disney doesn’t kill the King and Queen where the audience can full-on watch them die. They have enough respect for their viewers, enough respect for the fact that their primary audience is made up of children.

Naturally, the snowman song needs to end on a sad note because what else can you do after killing the heroines’ parents like that. But as the ginger princess begs the blonde one to please open up and let her in — as she pleads that they only have each other, after losing their parents — Ryou’s grip tightens even further and Shiro has to choke down several protests. Squirming only makes him relent slightly. God, he isn’t trying to hurt Shiro, of course he’s not — but Ryou clings to Shiro’s shoulder so hard that, _“He doesn’t know his own strength”_ starts to feel like an excuse that Shiro doesn’t want to make for anyone.

Especially not while watching the princesses sitting on opposite sides of the blonde one’s bedroom door, each one silently crying about the distance that exists between them when, physically, they’re mere inches from each other.

“Lauren didn’t tell me about this part,” Ryou whispers, after the song finishes. “I think… Maybe we should go?”

“No,” Shiro hisses. “This was _your_ idea.”

“Kashi, please, what if you’re not really…? If this is where it _starts_ —”

“It’ll get better. It’s a _Disney_ movie.” Huffing softly, he lifts his head enough to butt his forehead against Ryou’s ear. He can practically feel that auburn-haired woman getting ready to wring his neck, and Shiro can’t blame her for that. But still, he tells Ryou, “I want to stay. And I want you to stay _with_ me, Ryou.”

As a third song starts up, Ryou finally nods. Agrees that he’ll be fine and they’ll stick it out together. When the ginger princess crashes into some well-dressed, lantern-jawed, princely-looking dude, Ryou squeezes Shiro’s shoulder more gently and whispers a reminder that they can leave without any questions asked, if Shiro wants.

Fortunately, Shiro doesn’t want. The movie plays out with more highs and lows, sure, but that’s part of how narrative works. Any movie that they could’ve gone to would’ve emotionally jerked him and Ryou around in similar ways. There are enough comedic moments to balance out the sad ones. The animation’s quite nice. As things keep going, Shiro wonders how many different revisions the script went through and how many times somebody insisted on keeping something from a previous draft that might not have worked as well as they thought. Not that it’s _badly_ written? But it reminds him of all the times he’s tried to fix a case of songwriter’s block by shoving two different numbers together, even though they didn’t match.

Even so, it’s a cute enough movie. Probably a travesty that they got Idina Menzel to voice the blonde sister as an adult, then only gave her _one_ show-stopping number (gorgeous though it is) and one song where she and Kristen Bell trade some admittedly well-done recitative. But that’s more a matter of Shiro’s personal taste than anything. He can cop to that.

Both princesses make him wish he could get away with buying dolls of them, or that he had any purpose for having said toys. Kristoff the Reindeer Guy is amusing, though it’s sad that, by the end of this, he’s going to stay stuck as Ginger Anna’s platonic male friend who understandably pines after her but doesn’t get to end up romantically satisfied. That’s not his fault, though. Sure, he’s cute and earnest and hard-working — but how can he compete with the obvious force of nature that is Prince Hans of the Summer Isles?

In turn, Prince Hans is no Prince Philip, just as _Frozen_ is good but it’s no _Sleeping Beauty_ , and Elsa’s snow monster has a great design but he’s certainly no Maleficent. Still, whenever Hans is on screen, Shiro can’t help grinning. He’s a very fine prince. Obviously a worthy addition to the lineup of Disney boyfriends.

So what, Shiro’s taste in real life men is notoriously terrible? So what, the choices that he makes with those real guys are even worse, if anything? That Lotor guy was probably fine, but Shiro met him at a bar while staying out too late, trying to spite Ryou. He got himself into that entire tangled, messy situation with Maurice, and then made everything go from Bad to Horrible to Irreparably Toxic because he couldn’t just control himself. He offered Keith a place to stay when he needed help — offered him friendship and an easy physical intimacy — then fell in love with him, even though he knew how much _better_ Keith deserved. At least Shiro still has good taste in Disney princes.

Then, finally, Hans and Anna have their shot for a classic, affirming Disney Romantic Moment. She’s dying and only True Love can reverse the spell. Pressing close to Ryou, Shiro holds his breath and sits up straighter. This is it. Hans leans in for a kiss. He tilts Anna’s chin up. They’re going to fix this, and then they’ll work together to save Elsa from herself. This is a _Disney_ movie, so this _must_ be a True Love’s Kiss moment. That is how things _work_ —

 _“Oh, Anna,”_ Hans says, smirking in a way that makes Shiro’s blood freeze. _“If only there were someone out there who loved you.”_

Shiro gasps. His hands curl up in his jeans. They won’t stop shaking.

Ryou rubs at his bicep. Up on the screen, Hans and Anna keep going through the scene but Shiro can’t make out what they’re saying. He can barely keep the picture together, not with the way his eyes start burning. Right by his ear, Ryou whispers his name — _“Kashi? …Kashi? …Kashi-niichan, please, are you…?”_ — but even that… It sounds like Ryou’s calling to him from far away. Like someone’s holding his head underwater.

He clings at his jeans. If he doesn’t, he’ll take his nails to his thighs, which is self-harm now because Ulaz says it is. Shiro holds so fast to the fabric that knuckles go white, threaten to burst clear through the skin. A hand squeezes his shoulder — Ryou, it _must_ be Ryou, because who else is here? Who else would even—

 _“Oh, sweet boy,”_ a deep, smooth voice purrs in the back of his head. Hans is smiling on the screen. Gloating, maybe. And he isn’t the one saying this, but looking at him makes Maurice’s ghost come in more clearly: _“Oh no, no, no, my sweet boy. Who else but me could truly love you, exactly as you are? As a_ ** _monster_** _…”_

Another gasp. Shiro jerks out of Ryou’s hold, up to his feet. Worrying a hand through his hair, he promises to be back.

As he fumbles over Ryou and down the staircase, though, he doesn’t believe a word of that. Gamboling into the lobby’s glaring light — flinching from it and pressing forward anyway — Shiro feels his heart pounding like it wants to rend its way out of his chest.

Except it roils around the pit of his stomach, too. Something’s twisting around his lungs like boa constrictors, clenching around his heart like a straitjacket, trying to stop him dead in his tracks, trying to stop everything about him before he can—

Jesus, where’s the restroom? Eyes darting all over a corridor that he can’t fathom, Shiro sees too many doors. Too many options. Too many lights that try to burn his retinas. Rubbing at his face doesn’t help; it only makes him tear up faster.

Lurching down the hallway, Shiro might as well have anvils chained to his wrists and ankles. Everything’s slow, but his head rushes like his brain’s been shoved into a blender. He shuts his eyes, kneads his temples, tries to remember that he isn’t in Chicago anymore. He got away; Maurice can’t find him. Things are getting better now, no matter how many somersaults Shiro’s stomach does. Even if Shiro doesn’t feel—

_“Oh, sweet boy. If only you deserved the love you crave so badly.”_

Shiro swallows thickly. His heart plummets out of him. He won’t make it. Not to the restroom.

He throws himself into an alcove instead. Doubles over a trash can, propping himself up on his elbows. There’s a moment, brief and glimmering. Shiro gets a deep breath and a warm sense of calm floods over him. He lets himself think that he might be fine. Maybe, just maybe, he’s being unnecessarily dramatic. Overreacting in ways that he’ll need to talk about tomorrow, in his weekly session with Ulaz.

Then, the chill slams into his chest. Something sets the back of his throat on fire.

Before he can do anything to stop it, Shiro’s vomiting in the trash.

He doesn’t know how long he keeps going. Doesn’t know how long he’s sick before Ryou’s hand finds his shoulder, then rubs gentle circles around his back. If not for Shiro’s five layers of tops, Ryou’s fingers would snag around his vertebra. But bless him, all Ryou does is tell Shiro that it’s okay. That he’s sorry for not checking the movie out more before they did this, and he’s sorry for trusting that a Disney movie would be safer for them than the second installment in the _Hunger Games_ series. That, no matter what happens, Ryou’s here for him, and he’ll do whatever he can to help, to keep his Kashi safe.

More than he realizes, Ryou helps. Not that it matters, with what he’s up against. Each time Shiro thinks he’s getting a deep breath — a _break_ from this pain, from the illness that makes him shudder and wish that he would faint and get it over with — his mind calls up Maurice again. Cold and hard and unrelenting, like getting lobotomized by icicles. Which would honestly be better than puking like this, sicking up wave after wave of the food that he made himself eat today. Dinner, barely any different. Lunch and breakfast, partially digested. All the while, Shiro tries to tell himself that this is _bad_ , and it doesn’t feel _good_ , and so help him, he _is not_ going to get in the habit of making himself sick again.

He’s in another lull when people start filing out of a theatre behind them. None of them is being _loud_ exactly, but the combined drone of their voices buzzes so much that Shiro nearly starts heaving again. While he wobbles through deep breaths, uncertain of absolutely everything, Ryou offers apologies to other patrons who probably wanted to use these trash cans. Keeping his hand on the small of Shiro’s, he explains things to one of the ushers, _“Oh, no, it’s nothing that he ate here… I don’t think it’s contagious, either… He got upset while watching our movie, thank you so much for understanding…”_

Shiro hangs his head. Has to grit his teeth from how much the vomit _reeks_. But as he swallows his disgust, his stomach stays calm. Doesn’t jerk around inside of him, or try to wrench its way out of Shiro’s body, or try to claw its way up his throat. But then—

“I’m just saying, Princess,” comes some voice behind him. “I don’t sympathize with Peeta. I can’t stand him. Katniss deserves better.”

A second, sparkling voice answers, “You don’t understand his side of their romance? How can you _not_?”

“How can you even call what he and Katniss have a _romance_?” The first voice barks out a laugh like a fist crashing through a window, or possibly a jukebox. “Peeta didn’t even talk to her before their first Games together. He wasn’t in love with _Katniss_. Not really. He only loved the idea of her that he made up in his head. Then, he got jealous when he had no right, and acted like an entitled brat because a different guy had feelings for her. And she didn’t even _want_ Gale! It’s _garbage_.”

Something sounds so familiar about that argument.

Something sounds so familiar about that _voice_.

But Shiro’s brain snags as another chill slams into him. Tremors wrack his back and arms as the realization punches him in the stomach. Whoever that is, they’re describing him exactly. What they think about Peeta Mellark? That’s what Shiro did to Keith, almost to the letter.

For those sins against someone who deserved so much better, Shiro’s earned this pain. The next wave of nausea hits hard and deep. Makes him sick up until Shiro wishes that he only would’ve cried. That would’ve worn him out and left him feeling like someone’s torn apart his lungs and stolen everything he had inside of him — but at least his mouth wouldn’t taste like death warmed up in a downright toxic microwave that hasn’t been cleaned since 1985.

By the time he finishes, he can’t hear either of the voices from before. All he makes out is his own heartbeat and Ryou’s breathing.

“I mean, at least?” Shiro coughs, spits out a bit that’s stuck to his teeth. “At least it’s not alcohol induced?”

Trying to steady himself, he glances up at Ryou. All his brother looks is pale and scared.

“Sorry,” Shiro huffs, slumping harder on his elbows and hoping that his knees don’t give way. “Bad time for a joke?”

Ryou nods, patting Shiro’s back. “Very bad time for a joke.”

“I’ll just…” Shiro scrubs his forearm over his eyes, wiping away the tears that want to start again. “Just be a minute, okay?”

“Take your time, Kashi,” Ryou tells him, without the condescension of a fake smile. “Take as long as you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot possibly understate how much this reality’s Ryou Shirogane dislikes “[Do You Want To Build A Snowman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-zXT5bIBM0)” from _Frozen_. If he’d met the song (and the movie in general) under different circumstances, then he’d probably enjoy it well enough. As it stands, though, his classmate/coworker didn’t know that the “rough patch” that Ryou’s beloved brother had been through unfortunately made several things about _Frozen_ hit way too close to home for both of the twins.


	2. Thursday, April 10th, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a content warning, so much as an advisory note: if you are any kind of student, **please, please, PLEASE do not approach your IRL academic life in anything remotely resembling the way that Keith is doing**. Cussing out the head of your department is a terrible idea and it will almost certainly get you into a giant mess of trouble that you will not want to be in. Doing that to any of your teachers or professors is a bad idea in general, but it’s an even worse idea to do it to a department head.
> 
> Look, pretty much the only in-universe reason why this works out well for Keith? Is that Kolivan is a weirdo who finds himself increasingly intrigued by this feisty, bedraggled pain-in-the-ass undergrad who: can and does regularly hold his own in classes with graduate students; came ostensibly from out of nowhere and has a scrappy, can-do survivor’s attitude; is admittedly rough around the edges, but has ever so much potential; needs some guidance and a bit of polish, but could really go places and is refreshingly not intimidated by Kolivan; and confounds Kolivan by being so unrelenting about what he wants but also so seemingly desperate for Kolivan’s approval (but not so desperate that he’ll just do what Kolivan says that he wants and stop trying to become Kolivan’s advisee).
> 
> TL;DR: Keith only doesn’t get in trouble for his conduct in this chapter (and in the entire process of becoming Kolivan’s advisee) because Kolivan doesn’t put him in any. Kolivan doesn’t put him in any trouble because he doesn’t know what’s up with Keith, but he knows that he wants to know. **Please, I beg of you, DO NOT try anything even remotely resembling Keith’s actions at school IRL. It probably won’t work out very well.**

Staying at Allura’s family’s townhouse is… It’s kinda like… But on the other hand, the experience…

Well, it certainly is something. Keith has to give it that.

He’s been living in one of his girlfriend’s guest rooms for about two weeks now, and he hasn’t gotten used to it. Each morning, he wakes up wondering when the other shoe is going to drop, or when someone’s going to pull the rug out from underneath his life, or when Allura’s Father and Coran are going to point out the hidden cameras and tell Keith that he’s being punked.

Not that Allura would knowingly let them do that, but it’s the underlying principle of the idea.

Things in Keith’s life never go this nicely. Not for long. Why would they start now?

Maybe that’s why he’s been catching later and later buses off of campus. Here it is, going on _“who even knows how late”_ o’clock, and Keith’s only move toward eventually leaving campus? Was using one of his meal plan slots to get a couple sandwiches, a bag of pretzels, and a Coke from Montgomery Hall’s grab-and-go place. One of them has roast beef and cheddar, and it looks only slightly better than the fare he’d get at a backwoods gas station. The other, Keith has actually been eating because the tomatoes and the basil leaves might do okay, but the fresh mozzarella and the pesto sauce will likely get pretty rank before he makes his way back to the townhouse.

At least Allura likes pesto sauce. At least, when she kisses Keith and picks up on its pungent after-taste, she doesn’t spend half-an-hour throwing up, just in case she swallowed any of it herself. At least she doesn’t compromise by _only_ spending twenty minutes brushing her teeth, scouring any stray calories from the inside of her mouth instead of making herself sick on purpose, or pushing herself at the gym until her legs turn to jello and she’s ready to pass out.

But there’s no use in brooding over the past like that, so Keith tries not to.

Once he had his food, he slouched up to the twelfth floor. Endured another sit-down with Thace, who once again felt compelled to check in with his advisee. Apparently, Keith still hasn’t entirely earned forgiveness for unofficially auditing Kolivan’s course on protests, twentieth-century diasporic groups, and their different forms of sociopolitical organizing. Or for the nineteen levels of Hell that he gave to Dr. Iverson and his TA’s. Or for doing all of this behind Thace’s back and hoping that it got Kolivan’s attention.

Sure, Thace insisted on giving Keith that sympathetic, pursed-lips look he gets sometimes. The expression that usually comes right before Thace sighs and pushes Keith about sketching out his plan for the next few years, deciding how to divvy up his credits so he focuses on whatever Thace thinks Keith is best at this week, and building up the right components so Keith can get the most out of his degree, at least by someone’s definition.

Of course, Thace remained adamant that he asked for this meeting simply for the sake of talking to his wayward advisee and reminding Keith that, as his advisor, Thace is in his corner unless Keith truly runs afoul of any university rules or codes of student conduct.

Yeah, Thace tried his best to say that Keith isn’t in trouble — but why deny the perfectly obvious?

Keith’s probably gonna be in for something when he goes uptown tonight, too. Yes, he’s thought so every night that he’s skulked back to his guest room, and no, nothing’s happened yet. But this isn’t going to last because it _can’t_ last. No matter how much Allura insists that she doesn’t mind — that she loves him back, and she wants to help because he lost his student housing and shouldn’t resort to breaking into strangers’ cars in search of a little shut-eye — nothing good ever stays in Keith’s life. If the good things don’t get sick of and abandon him of their own volition, then inevitably, he finds a way to ruin everything.

So, Keith’s spent the past hour-and-a-half sitting on the floor outside the history department’s offices, with his legs curled up and his face shoved in different paperbacks. _Good Omens_ , _Building Mindscapes_ , and his current college-ruled, spiral-bound, five-subject notebook sit on one side of him, with his backpack on the other. Since neither Kolivan’s book nor the Gaiman-Pratchett collaboration wanted to let Keith focus on reading them, he’s moved on to a beat-up copy of _The Shining_ that happened to be on his person. He hasn’t read it in ages. Mostly, he hasn’t bothered trying because Stephen King’s smarminess practically bleeds off of every slightly yellowed page.

On the other hand, Keith hasn’t touched any of the King paperbacks he couldn’t sell before he got out of Chicago because every single one is inextricably tied up with people whom he shouldn’t think about. Sure, Ryou Shirogane lives in Massachusetts — but last Keith heard, he was at MIT, not Kaltenecker U.

Besides, Keith doesn’t want to see Ryou; he wants to see Ryou’s brother. He _shouldn’t_ want that, not after what he put Shiro through. Especially not with how Keith handled it when Shiro left to go get the help he so desperately needed. Considering everything, the last thing that Shiro ever needs in his life again? Is Keith. About the only way that Keith can do right by Shiro now? Is to honor his last request and live, and to work his ass off until he’s a version of himself who never would’ve ruined Shiro’s life, the way he did.

But as far as the book goes, Keith could do worse. The story’s engaging enough, Keith guesses, without being so overly complicated that it exacerbates his mile headache. He’s fine, despite the ever-present, nagging reminder that Ryou had an embarrassing fanboy brain-crush on Stephen King, and Shiro always affectionately teased him for it, and sometimes, Keith and Shiro would laugh so hard about all the absurd, obscene ideas of things that Ryou might do for Stephen King that they’d collapse together on the old futon and for one brief, glimmering moment, it felt like everything might be okay.

Regardless of how well the reading’s going, there’s still this sensation, clawing at the back of Keith’s mind. It screams that nothing will ever be okay, that everything is broken and Keith’s the one who broke it, that he shouldn’t go back to the townhouse because it doesn’t matter what he improves about himself, he’ll raze Allura’s life to the ground, exactly like he did to Shiro—

“Mr. Kogane,” a deep, gruff voice drawls from several feet above him.

Cringing, he bites out, “I told you to just call me, ‘Keith.’ That’s my _name_ , isn’t it.”

“Kogane is also your name.”

“Yeah, well, _Markus_ and _Prežničar_ are also part of your name. But I only hear anybody calling you _Kolivan_.”

Except of course for Antok, who openly calls his husband things like, _“Babe,”_ and, _“Dear,”_ and, _“krahvenkhil”_ without concern for who can hear those terms of endearment. Or for the fact that the last of them means, _“fuckhead”_ in Galran.

Bringing up Antok would be hitting below the belt, though. Moreover, when Kolivan looms over Keith, he’s wearing a stormcloud scowl that suggests he has absolutely no patience for any of what Thace might call Keith’s _“antics.”_ Arching an eyebrow as thick and furry as a significantly overweight caterpillar, Kolivan looks down his aquiline nose at Keith, peers at him over the rims of his John Lennon glasses.

“If this is some new attempt at convincing me to take you on as an advisee,” he says flatly, “then I’m afraid that I do not understand.”

“Yeah, because everything in this entire department is always about _you_ , isn’t it?” Keith rolls his eyes. Pointedly stares down at his book, even though the words are bleeding together into a mess of scribbles that he _knows_ he recognizes but can’t currently get his head around. “Believe it or not, I have a life outside of harassing you.”

“Hmmm, truly?” Kolivan taps his foot against Keith’s copy of _Building Mindscapes_. He almost smirks when Keith jerks it away. “If you wanted to impress me, then you could at least pretend to read my work.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Keith snarls before he can stop himself.

This makes Kolivan arch his _stupid eyebrow_ again, as if he actually knows anything about Keith — and no matter how much his skin crawls, Keith forces himself to glower right back at Kolivan. To meet his eyes instead of focusing on the bridge of his nose, like Shiro once suggested. Antok said that Keith would need to prove his mettle if he wants Antok’s husband to consider him, so fine. He can’t let Kolivan intimidate him.

Keith takes a deep breath and huffs. “You don’t know what I’ve read or not. You don’t know the first thing about me, Kolivan.”

Which is more than fair enough to say because Kolivan has _no idea_ who Keith is or isn’t. He has no idea where Keith comes from, or what he did to get here, or how far he’s willing to go for what he wants.

Except Kolivan narrows his eyes as if he’s inspecting a particularly confounding piece of dog shit. “I know that you seem to take a perverse delight in making my life exceptionally difficult. Therefore, it does not seem out-of-character for you to camp outside of the offices, pretending to read my work and waiting to ambush me.”

“Yeah, like I said: because _everything in this department_ is always about _you_ , isn’t it?”

“You seem quite eager to put words in my mouth, _Keith_.” Kolivan inhales deeply, meditatively, as if Keith is genuinely getting on his nerves right now. “Just as you have been eager to ignore my advice that I do not accept new advisees because, as the head of this department, I am under no obligation to do so. And to insist that you _will_ win me over.”

“And I intend to. But right now?” Keith holds up the book so Kolivan can see the cover. Since he might as well take advantage of the opportune moment, he locks his gaze onto Kolivan’s face again and refuses to waver. “Right now, Kolivan? I’m just pleasure reading. I’m sitting around in a location that I like and reading because I _want_ to.”

Kolivan’s lips twist up bemusedly. “I would not have pegged you for a fan of Stephen King.”

“Yeah. Because, like I literally just said? You don’t know the first thing _about_ me.” Sniffing, Keith gets the distinct sensation of being placed under a microscope by someone who wants to vivisect him. Who wants to pick him apart with a scalpel and see what makes Keith tick. “Anyway, I didn’t say it was for a very good value of pleasure.”

“So, you are simply reading a book you do not enjoy, while sitting on a cold, hard floor and resting your back against a wall that cannot possibly be comfortable.” If Kolivan’s going for intimidation, then he’s doing an absolutely bullshit job. He folds his thick, brown, hairy arms over his chest and give Keith the same inscrutable, pensive look that he pulls out in classes when he suspects that somebody’s babbling without having done that session’s reading. “You are putting yourself in a situation that must physically discomfit you for the sake of pleasure reading that gives you no pleasure. Do you see what point I wish to make.”

 _Yes, sir_ , Keith considers saying, because he does see where Kolivan wants to take this.

 _No_ , he considers drawling, breaking out as much sarcasm as he can. _Break it down, why don’t you. Explain it for me like I’m a fucking five-year-old, Kolivan, because clearly, I’m an idiot and I can’t see your obvious point that you don’t believe me, and how you’re grasping at straws to paint me as some stupid, desperate stalker._

 _Patience yields focus_ , he tells himself, taking one deep breath, and then another, and silently thanking God, or Satan, or whoever’s decided to take pity on him that his mental _“Patience yields focus”_ voice sounds like himself instead of Shiro.

The Keith he should be would handle with dignity and aplomb when Kolivan taps his foot and clicks his tongue — not least because Thace has flat-out told Keith that Kolivan respects people who show him grace under pressure.

The Keith he _should_ be would find a diplomatic response when Kolivan needles him with, “Well, _Keith_? Do you understand what conclusions I have drawn from the evidence that you have made available to me. And do you see what I am asking in pointing it out to you as I have done.”

But Keith has never been the Keith he **_should_** be.

So, instead, he uncurls the protective shield of his legs, folds them up crosswise while leaving his chest and stomach open for attack. He takes another deep breath and looks Kolivan dead in the eye. He sets his jaw and grinds his teeth even though Allura wishes that he wouldn’t and Coran will likely take his head off for it later. Curling one hand into a fist, Keith digs his nails into his palm. His stomach turns, and he hates how well that rush of pain grounds him in the here-and-now — but fuck it. Where Keith comes from, if it works, then it works.

“You really want to know what I can _see_ , Kolivan?” Somehow, he manages to keep his voice from trembling too badly. It’s almost like someone else is speaking, using Keith’s mouth as a conduit. “All that I see right now is a _coward_. Some jumped-up fuck with a PhD and a mile-long laundry list of activist street creds. Someone who _knows_ what he can do and _knows_ what he’s capable of — somebody who _knows_ what he does and **_knows_** what his work _means_ to people — but who doesn’t want to do _bullshit fucking anything_ with all of that potential. Or with the _opportunities_ that he has. At least, not anymore.”

Dimly, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Shiro at his least intoxicated mewls in the back of Keith’s head, telling him to back down and stop running his mouth before he gets himself killed or expelled (which would be even worse than getting killed, after everything that Shiro gave up to get Keith here).

Significantly less dimly, though, something roars inside Keith’s chest. Something that he’s always associated with his Red, the fire-breathing imaginary lioness who proved herself a good friend when Keith’s had absolutely no one in his corner. She tells him to keep going, to stay strong in his purpose. If nothing else, Keith’s already started digging his own grave. No sense in going half-way about this.

Inhaling sharply, he digs his nails deeper into his palm. “And do you know _why_ you’re a coward, Kolivan?”

“No, Keith, I’m afraid that I don’t.” Kolivan should be scowling, not giving Keith that pensive hum and a curious tilt of his head, like he’s suddenly decided to find Keith fascinating. “Please. Do explain your rationale.”

It takes Keith a couple of deep breaths to remember how to make words do that thing where they come out of him. While he’s steadying himself — while he’s digging at his own palm and hoping that he doesn’t draw blood because that’s the _last_ thing he wants to answer for, right now — he doesn’t allow himself to look away from Kolivan.

“You’re a coward because you aren’t even trying to do right by your convictions. Because it’s like you’ve given up on yourself.” _Just like Shiro used to tell_ ** _me_** _not to do. Except you’ve got no excuse for this. Not when you’re a verifiable genius._

Keith shakes his head to banish that thought, because brooding about Shiro helps absolutely nobody. “And you know what the worst part is in everything? You’re doing it because it’s so much easier for you to sit in your office, and go to meetings about the curriculum, and talk a big fucking _game_ about how you’ve got all these great research projects that you _want_ to get around to sometime in the future, maybe. But when it comes to integrity? And when it comes to standing by literally _any_ of the ideas that you put into _Building Mindscapes_?”

“Which ideas do you mean in particular?” Both of Kolivan’s eyebrows inch up like they could jump off of his forehead. He drums his fingers along his elbow — and Jesus, if he’s gonna play the gadfly, then Keith wants to smack him with a swatter and show him what people generally do to gadflies. “If you truly wish to make this argument about my alleged hypocrisy and cowardice, then I should hope you have evidence to support your claims?”

“Oh, I don’t know, the point about how a melding of minds — y’know, colleagues learning from each other — is supposed to be one of the most rewarding parts of academia?” Seriously, Keith should shut up before he either injures himself or gets himself expelled. But Kolivan poked the bear, so Keith keeps going: “And the one about how mentoring students is one of the highest callings that anyone could find as a teacher?”

Keith slams his fist against the floor, grateful that, for all it smarts, the impact doesn’t make too much noise. “Sure, you can _write_ a whole section about how great it is to find people’s strengths and weaknesses, and to help guide them into being better than they think they are. But when somebody comes and seeks you out? When I don’t care what people say about how _impossible_ you are and when I actually _want_ to work with you? Wow, you could not give two fucks less.”

Kolivan inhales deeply and lets that breath out in a sigh. He scrubs a hand down his face, over his mouth.

Maybe he has something to say for himself. Maybe it’s even a halfway decent explanation for why he’s such a frigid, closed-off asshole and absolutely nothing like _Building Mindscapes_ led Keith to believe he’d be.

“But whatever,” Keith sighs explosively, shoving away his notebook and his paperbacks. He claws his way back up to his feet and shoulders his backpack. “Clearly, no one else is allowed to exist in your general vicinity today, so fine. I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

By the time he gets to the elevators, Keith’s certain that he’s getting out of this unscathed.

Instead, as he’s pushing the button to call for one, Kolivan calls after him, “You could just as easily read _at home_ , you realize.”

“No, I _can’t_ , actually.” Keith stabs his thumb into the button, then glares over his shoulder. “If you want me to read at home? Then first thing’s first, Kolivan: I need to _have_ a home. And I haven’t had a home in three-hundred-and-sixty days, thank you so fucking much for asking.”

Faltering, Kolivan squints at Keith. “You have student housing, do you not?”

“Not anymore. I lost it back in January. Stupid, bureaucratic mix-up involving scholarships.”

Not like Kolivan gives a fuck anyway. Sure, the only other people who know about this are Allura, Coran, Alfor, and the folks in the Office of Housing and the Office of Student Aid. It’s better that way. Keith hasn’t even told Thace about this, because Thace might have tried to make Keith into a pity project or a charity case. Others, too, might have decided that Keith needed them to rescue him when he was doing just fine on his own, and only accepted an invitation to stay at Allura’s family’s townhouse to give his poor girlfriend some peace of mind. But for everything else that’s completely fucked about Kolivan? At least he won’t stick his nose into this when it’s none of his fucking business.

Looking back at Kolivan, Keith narrows his eyes. Hopes that he looks serious, not stupid. “Anyway, you of all people should know the difference between a _home_ and ‘somewhere that you happen to live.’”

“Hmm, you listed a very specific number of days since you _lost_ your home.” Advancing on Keith, Kolivan’s footsteps sound like the snare drum leading up to a hanging. “And if my mental mathematics check out, the date that you did so was April fifteenth of last year—”

Thank God the elevator dings. Thank God the doors fling open and let Keith on. Thank God he’s quick about bidding Kolivan a good weekend and slamming on the button to close the doors, because fuck his life, Keith _cannot_ handle the question that Kolivan probably wanted to ask.

As the elevator lurches to life, Keith drops his backpack and wedges himself into the corner. Grinding at the bridge of his nose, he struggles to keep breathing. Prays that nobody gets on with him. Fuck, that’s the last thing that Keith needs right now: sharing an enclosed space with someone that he doesn’t know — or worse, somebody that he recognizes, who probably thinks that they know anything about him — while he’s trying to get himself back under something that’s in the vague vicinity of self-control.

April fifteenth — fuck Kolivan for doing the math on that instead of letting Keith be.

April fifteenth — fuck Keith for saying literally anything to clue Kolivan in about the single worst day of his life, so far.

April fifteenth — fuck Shiro for promising Keith that they would talk when Keith got home from work, telling him that they had something important to discuss, and then fucking off to who-even-the-fuck-knows-fucking-where, and only telling Keith that he’d gone to get serious, inpatient help _after_ Keith had already spent two weeks chasing ghosts around Chicago, trying to find Shiro again because what if Maurice had taken him, and what if he was in trouble, and what if he needed Keith to finally come through for him and live up to any pretensions of ever being Shiro’s paladin.

April fifteenth — fuck Keith even harder for letting Shiro get as bad as he did. Fuck Keith until he bleeds for not finding the right way to help Shiro until he was such a fucking mess that Maurice and Aunt Satomi and probably Ryou all insisted on sending him to an inpatient clinic. Fuck Keith literally to death for ever claiming that he loved Shiro, even if he only did so in his private journals, because how could he possibly have loved Shiro when he’s the reason why everything in Shiro’s life completely went to fucking Hell.

April fifteenth — fuck that day, that impossibly awful fucking day, and fuck existence for continuing as though nothing about that day even mattered. As though nothing even happened. As though the aftermath of last year’s April fifteenth hasn’t left Keith a complete disaster of a person, struggling to make himself breathe like an even remotely functional human being, willing himself not to cry because he has no right to do that because what happened last year wasn’t about him in the first place.

Then again, why _would_ the universe give two shits about how Keith feels? It never has before, so why would it bother starting now.

As he stumbles out onto the quad, Keith shoves his hands into his hip pockets and wanders in the vague direction of the library. Jesus, he probably should’ve gone there in the first place. All around him, the twilight’s setting in quite nicely, all moderate and comfortable, with a purple-pinkish sky that’s slowly fading into blue.

The rest of this city bustles with life and purpose, everybody buzzing around like bees in a hive, content that they belong somewhere. Keith’s happy for everybody else, happy that they get that kind of comfort. Sure, he’s only happy in the same distant, intellectual way that he’s happy for people who win the lottery, where he recognizes that this is a good thing for them and he doesn’t want to be the sort of selfish rat who can’t congratulate other people when they’re doing well.

Still, that happiness does nothing for him, personally. Keith still comes up feeling empty, like someone’s broken into his chest and stolen any feeling he had that has ever been of value to him or anyone.

Except for the sensation of his eyes stinging like he might cry. Unfortunately, Keith can still feel that.

Oh, and dizziness, apparently. Which makes no sense because Keith’s eaten fine, lately. One of the few benefits of having an obscenely wealthy girlfriend who pointedly refuses to understand the meaning of, _“I don’t like being in anybody’s debt, Princess. Not even yours”_? Allura and Coran have made damn sure that Keith’s gotten enough to eat since that night when she and her Father found Keith sleeping in the backseat of Alfor’s Benz.

But his head keeps spinning, so Keith slumps against the old hawthorn tree. He digs his fingertips into his temple as though unburying his brain will help him any. As though thinking has ever done that much for Keith, aside from finding more reasons to be miserable. Maybe he should make a beeline for the bus-stop, get on the Red Line, and head back to the townhouse before he loses his ability to plausibly claim that he wasted so much time on campus because he was doing some prep for his and Allura’s upcoming finals.

Then, right as he’s begun to get himself together, Keith spots a forest green sweatshirt with the letters _MIT_ sewn onto the chest.

From here, he can’t entirely see the wearer’s face — but they’re chunky and slightly tanned, like they’d have tawny skin if they spent more time in the sunlight. Short, black hair and black glasses (Keith thinks), carrying a bulging black messenger bag, the way that both of the Shirogane twins used to like. And if Keith remembers correctly about Shiro’s brother’s favorite color… _Oh, holy_ ** _shit_** —

“Ryou,” bursts out of him to no reaction.

Keith’s legs take off before he can think twice. He careens down the quad’s cobblestone pathway, elbowing past one of the dime-a-dozen tall, needle-skinny, black-haired hipster guys who run amok on this and every other liberal arts college campus in the fucking country.

He almost doubles back to apologize — almost lies about being sorry because that’s the polite thing to do, even though Keith would be completely full of shit — but if there’s any chance in Hell that he’s right about this? If there’s even a snowball’s chance in Tahiti that Keith can hear for sure that Shiro’s doing better? He can’t waste any time.

Chasing after that sweatshirt, Keith calls out again, “ _Ryou!_ Ryou, wait!”

He follows the sweatshirt all the way to the library. Saying a silent prayer of thanks that its wearer held up instead of going inside immediately, Keith keeps shouting, “Ryou! Ryou, please, it’s me! _Ryou_ , it’s Kei—”

His own name dies on his tongue. He stumbles, trying to stop and nearly crashing into the person in the MIT sweatshirt.

Up close like this, he sees the truth: he hasn’t found Ryou Shirogane, after all. Yes, this particular forest green MIT sweatshirt belongs to someone who’s tall and heavyset — but now that Keith can see more clearly, she also has a sizable bust and a heart-shaped pendant, painted in the red, white, and pink stripes of the lesbian pride flag. When she pulls off the sweatshirt, she reveals a black t-shirt that advertises her membership in a local chapter of Dykes On Bikes.

Furrowing her brow in sympathy, she tries to give Keith a smile. “Himeko, actually? But… Can I help you with anything?”

Swallowing thickly, Keith shakes his head. “Sorry, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, just…” He shoves his hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “From a distance, I thought… You looked like somebody who I used to know. My mistake… I’m sorry.”


	3. Saturday, August 23rd, 2014

After all the build-up that Ryou gave him, Shiro expects Sven to be some kind of human boogeyman. Heading up to Ryou’s place before this big trip to the mall, Shiro hums along with the music shuffling through his earbuds and imagines that Sven might be half-dragon and ready to burn down the world, or some kind of black handlebar mustache-twirling evil genius, or at the very least, the same hulking size as Maurice with the general temperament of a cat who’s just been dragged through a lengthy and unwanted round of bath-time.

Then, he gets up to the old apartment and meets a guy who’s the same height as him and Ryou, with shaggy black hair, a t-shirt that says, _“It’s not easy being green”_ with a design of Kermit the Frog smoking a joint, and a smile that might get on Shiro’s nerves if it weren’t so warm, so welcoming, and so painfully earnest.

Probably the worst thing about Sven, as far as Shiro can tell? Is that a rough estimate would place him around the endgame goal weight that Shiro’s working for but hasn’t gotten to yet. Which isn’t a bad thing or a moral failing on Sven’s part, so much as it’s a thing that unavoidably reminds Shiro of his last weigh-in with Sophie and how he’s still a good twenty-three pounds shy of where everyone who cares about him wants him to be, weight-wise. Which isn’t Sven’s fault or anybody else’s; it’s simply something that Shiro needs to deal with.

Honestly, as nice as Sven probably is? He misses Ryou’s hype by such a wide margin that Shiro wishes he’d stayed entangled with Lotor.

Sliding into the backseat of Ryou’s car, Shiro tries not to look at Sven too closely. Mostly, he avoids staring too hard at the other guy because it’s tacky and impolite to zero in on someone else’s body, especially when you’re meeting them for the first time. On the other hand, Shiro wouldn’t appreciate Sven scrutinizing _his_ body, so it’s only fair to give Sven the same courtesy.

So, Shiro tries to look out the window, or at the ceiling, or over at Slav as he plays with a long piece of rainbow-colored string in the front passenger seat. He tries to take his mind off of the question about how much Sven does or doesn’t weigh, and the (non-)issue of whether or not Sven actually has any pudge lining his midsection and straining at his t-shirt, and the matter of Sven’s body type and what he might look like naked, and so many other things that are objectively none of Shiro’s business. He shouldn’t care about these things, period.

Except that’s easier said than done when they’re right up in each other’s proximity, like this. As Shiro puts on a fresh coat of lip-chap, Sven squirms around in his seat, leaning forward in such a way that it _definitely_ looks like he’s got a little bit of chub around the middle. Yet, when they’re piling out into the parking lot, Sven stretches his arms over his head and scratches at his middle like he literally doesn’t care who sees him or doesn’t.

Trailing after the others, Shiro can’t fathom how Sven could fail to care about other people seeing his body like that. Hell, the only people who’ve seen Shiro topless recently are Lotor, Lance, and Ryou. One of them is dating Shiro, and initially only got Shiro to take his shirt off because Shiro had something to prove to himself. One of them would probably have asked Shiro out, had they met under different circumstances, and if both of them weren’t seeing other people (Lotor and Plaxum, respectively), Shiro might consider asking him out now. And Ryou, well… He’s Ryou. Even if Shiro didn’t trust his brother as much as he does, Ryou has seen him looking worse.

Once they’re inside the mall, it quickly becomes apparent that there isn’t a plan for this outing. Ryou might have allowed Shiro to believe that there was some kind of itinerary — he might have strategically phrased things and simply neglected to correct his brother’s assumptions — but the reality is probably more that this trip was always meant to be a lot of random wandering, window-shopping, and miscellaneous misadventures. Smart bet says that Ryou wanted Shiro to get out more without needing some combination of an appointment, a plan, Lance, and/or Lotor to be involved.

If there were any kind of plan, then Ryou would split them up into groups based on who needs what, who needs to go where, and who has the most destinations to hit. Instead, he leads them over to the _“You Are Here”_ directory by the information desk and licks his lips while perusing the list of stores. Slav hangs off of Ryou as though they’re dating, as though Slav has an actual invitation to be so casually intimate with _Shiro’s_ little brother. Yawning deeply, he drapes those floppy arms around Ryou’s shoulder and nuzzles at the back of Ryou’s neck — and while Shiro honestly wants to punch him, Ryou just keeps tonguing at his mouth.

“Oh my _god_ , brother,” Shiro hisses. “Knock it off. You _know_ better.”

Rubbing at the bridge of his nose and brushing his thumb along the scar he got out at Joshua Tree, Shiro tries to steady himself. Tries to keep breathing deeply. Nearly six months since he caught a rock with his face and he still isn’t used to the scar — but feeling up the texture soothes his nerves. Maybe it doesn’t make him less annoyed with watching that tongue dart out across Ryou’s lips again, but given what Ryou’s doing to himself, Shiro is perfectly within his rights, as the older brother, to object.

So, he adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, edges up to Ryou’s shoulder that doesn’t have currently have a gangly mess of Slav spilled out all over it, and bumps against his brother. “Ryou, seriously. You _know_ you’re only gonna make your lips get _worse_ if you keep doing that. Man up and put on some lip-chap or I will put it on _for you_.”

Openly rolling his eyes, Ryou puts a hand in front of Shiro’s face. He makes the gesture that would be a duck if they were doing shadow-puppets, then flaps its makeshift mouth. When Shiro arches an eyebrow at him, Ryou doesn’t even react.

“Making yappy hands at me doesn’t make you _right_.”

“Interrupting me while I’m pondering suggests that Lance is rubbing off on you, oniichan.” Ryou huffs, pushing up his glasses and squinting at the section labeled _Technology and Games._ “At least, I hope it’s _just_ Lance rubbing off on you. As opposed to Lance and also possibly your stupid _boyfriend_.”

“Yeah, because disliking Lotor makes you _so cool_.” Since Ryou started the eye-rolling, Shiro gives it back to him in turn. “I know that he isn’t the sort of guy you wish I’d date, but he _gets_ me, okay? We understand each other. And we go together really well, so…”

Ryou fixes Shiro with a flat, unimpressed expression. Without words, he seems to say, _“Kashi-niichan, if you don’t recognize who else you’ve ever said similar things about, then we are going to have a Very Serious Discussion later, and you will enjoy absolutely none of it.”_

So, Shiro narrows his eyes and tells Ryou, “Lotor is his own person. Not what you’re thinking. Stop being a brat and put on your lip-chap.”

By way of acting like a good example, Shiro applies another fresh coat of his own.

Soon enough, Slav decides that he and Ryou need to head to the Apple Store, first and foremost. True to form, he has some kind of explanation for this, albeit one that sure walks, talks, and stinks like a steaming load of excrement. Something about mass surveillance and alternate realities, though both points make even less logical sense than Slav usually does — but it gets Slav out of Shiro’s hair, which is makes things so much better for Shiro.

On the other hand, it leaves Shiro with Sven. They could separate, if they wanted, but as Shiro follows Sven in the direction of the Macy’s, he can’t think of any outcome in which separating goes any kind of well for them. Sure, it’s awkward in a way that makes Shiro want to worm out of his skin, wandering around the aisles at Old Navy, watching Sven look at different equally nondescript t-shirts in varying vibrant colors, forcing small talk about how he’s found the US since moving here at the end of April and what sort of songs Shiro’s been writing lately.

But if they drifted apart, then they could get lost. Considering how spotty cell reception can be inside the mall, either of them losing track of each other could all too easily lead to the entire group ending up flung to the winds and scattered to the four corners of the earth. If a little awkwardness is the price of keeping everyone more or less together, then so be it. Shiro has lived through worse things than squinting his way through a Pottery Barn for over twenty minutes, tailing Sven around the overpriced throw-pillows and wonky-looking, pretentious, mass-produced lawn-sculptures like a freaking puppy, and having absolutely no idea why they came in here at all, since Sven doesn’t seem interested in buying anything.

When Shiro finally gives up and asks what Sven needs from Pottery Barn, all he does is shrug and give Shiro a deeply perplexing smile that lights up his face way too easily. “Oh, nothing, yah? We can move on it you want to.”

“Then why did we even come in here, if you don’t need anything?” Ruffling a hand over his increasingly floppy hair, Shiro lets himself slouch at the hips. “God, sorry, I’m not trying to judge or anything? I’m just… Confused? Because it’s Pottery Barn? And I don’t know why _anyone_ would come in here unless they really needed something?”

Leading them back out into the main area of the mall, Sven quirks his shoulders again. “I just think it’s a really funny place, yanno? Decorative, yah, but for _what_? It’s all so… hideous, don’t’cha think?”

“So, you dragged us through Pottery Barn… because looking at ugly, overpriced decorations amuses you?”

“More so if you actually make funna them, but yah, pretty much.” Again, Sven smiles like it’s just that easy. Flipping his hair off his face like he’s in a One Direction video, he bounces along so energetically that he might as well have an internal monologue made of bubblegum pop music. “I thought I was trying to get you in on it, but? Maybe I just wasn’t obvious enough about it?”

 _So, you were trying to bait me into mocking the stuff at Pottery Barn… to get to know me better?_ — Shiro doesn’t allow himself to say this, because it’s rude, especially if Sven actually _does_ want to be friendly. Maybe Shiro doesn’t understand, but there’s no reason to be a jerk.

At least, as far as people in Ryou’s life go, Shiro gets to deal with someone other than Slav.

At least, when he asks if Sven minds ducking into the Hot Topic, he lights up instead of giving Shiro a twenty-minute lecture about how, in eighty-seven-point-six percent of realities in which humans can summon demons to wreak havoc on the world, Hot Topic hires an employee who becomes responsible for literally unleashing Hell on Earth.

“I’ve wanted to see this place, yah.” Sven beams so much, Shiro wonders if he’s going to hook their arms together and make Shiro start skipping. “I mean, I’ve heard a lot about it? But I’ve never actually _been_ to a Hot Topic store.”

“It’s not really… It’s kind of like? I mean, I get the excitement if you’ve never been before, I guess, but?” Shiro shrugs, shaking his bangs off of his forehead. “It’s mostly a hangout for teenagers who are, like? Aggressively nonconformist. And usually pretty conformist about _being_ aggressively nonconformist. The typical Hot Topic customer is basically the goth rock version of those obnoxious hipster slacktivists who wear the one specific picture of Che Guevara’s face on their mass-produced t-shirts that were made by exploited workers in inhumane sweatshops.”

There’s nothing funny about this, but Shiro chuckles drily anyway. “The only excuse anybody has at Hot Topic? Is that the typical Hot Topic customer is usually about fifteen or sixteen, and they don’t know anything about _anything_ about the real world, yet.”

Furrowing his brow — faltering for the first time since they were introduced to each other — Sven blinks at Shiro. “I’m not exactly… Are you? Is what you’re saying, like?” He puckers up his lips as if he just sucked on twenty different lemons all at once, watches Shiro like he’s trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle that may or may not blow up in his face. “Shiro? Are you feeling okay, or…?”

“Yeah, I mean?” Shiro plasters on a smile that is, in his humble opinion, perfectly convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Sven frowns in something that looks like concern. “Are you sure, though? ‘Cause you just rather got a bit… enthusiastic? About that outburst?”

“I’m fine, Sven. Promise.” As if this helps prove his point, Shiro points at his hair. “I need to get something so Lotor — my boyfriend, I mean — can help me dye this for the first time.”

Strictly speaking, everyone who was at the Spring Street LGBTQ community center for NA Fridays last night might point out several reasons why Shiro might not be anywhere near as fine as he’d like Sven to believe. Paraphrasing how Lotor put it before they slept together last night: if “fine” is currently playing the Red Sox at Fenway Park, then Shiro is milling around popular London cruising spots, hoping that he gets to suck George Michael’s metaphorical cock.

Granted, they’d be violating some of the safer space rules of NA Fridays, if they did that — but they’d still be more correct than not. He clammed up tight after listening to Jeri talk about how she did wrong by her ex-lover and how she kept choosing her preferred cocktail of pills over the woman she’d once wanted to spend the rest of her life with. It was a great share, on Jeri’s part. She’s a natural storyteller. Everything from her word choice to the way she worked her Brooklyn accent, from the gestures she picked out to the way she shook out her billowing cloud of chestnut brown curls — all of it was _magical_. Enrapturing. The initial rush of responses from the group said exactly what Shiro was thinking about how Jeri belongs on-stage, doing a one-woman show or something, because she genuinely has a gift for public speaking and skill with working a crowd.

None of them, however, said what Shiro was feeling about how he knew exactly how it feels to love someone with your whole heart — to love them so much that one look from them can burn you up from the inside out — but need a fix so badly that it feels like you’re gonna die. To want to do right by them, and keep them safe, and make them proud, and then to keep messing up every attempt you make because the truth is that you can’t handle sobriety, you can’t handle getting stuck in the same day-to-day reality that shouldn’t faze you because normal people can handle it just fine and what makes you so special. To know that you’re ruining your beloved’s life and that, if you actually deserved to be with them, you’d cut them loose and let them go make the most of life without you, even if it kills you in the process because what if you can’t breathe without them. To owe them so much more than you can give — but to keep clinging at them like they’re a human life-raft because everything’s become too much, and it feels like all you have left is the hope that maybe someday, they might love you back, no matter how much you wish that they’ll find the strength to save themself and get away before you ruin them completely.

Sure, some of the group had different, _“I relate to that…”_ feelings and their own, _“Something you said really struck a chord with me because I feel like…”_ hot takes on Jeri’s share — but none of them could speak to what Shiro felt. Not exactly. Because none of them are Shiro himself and none of them know exactly what he did to Keith.

When David and Miranda noticed Shiro folding in on himself, they decided to prod. And needle. And claw at him like honey badgers, looking for whatever bit of tender, exposed underbelly they could get at and sink their teeth into. Which Shiro supposes is all part of their job, as the group’s usual leaders — but that doesn’t mean he enjoyed getting put on the spot. Or that he wanted to deal with David and Miranda acting like they were some of his old teachers and he was the one person in class who hadn’t offered an opinion on the discussion yet.

He didn’t want to open up about how much he’d hurt Keith. How he’d nearly destroyed Keith. How the only hope that he has left is the idea that Keith likely listened to what he wrote in that letter, that Keith went on with his life, that he’s making the most out of his potential and his talents. Shiro only wanted what he still wants now: for Keith to be okay, no matter how difficult Shiro finds absolutely everything. No matter how many times he’s claimed to be okay and failed to make it even remotely true.

For now though, Shiro doesn’t want to talk about all of the reasons why he may not be anywhere in the neighborhood of _okay_.

For now, he wants to sludge through the Hot Topic and find where they’re hiding the hair dye.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to look around for too long. The basket with the bottles of Manic Panic sits over along one wall with a collection of myriad other accessories: thick black shoelaces with a pattern of little rainbows; a spinning rack of necklaces, some of which look like things that Lance might enjoy; little bottles of nail-polish and containers of black mascara; false eyelashes; little bowls of pin-back buttons with snarky statements, cute designs, or the names of popular bands — so many things that Shiro might consider buying, on any other day. Maybe someday, when he’s feeling better, he’ll come back here and get himself some of these trinkets. Like one of the black chokers with the dangling, ornate cross pendants.

But for now, Shiro simply wants to get his bottle of hot pink hair dye and clear out of the store before he feels like he’s going to gag on whatever they use to make the place smell like incense. The air in there’s too thick to breathe properly. It curls up on the inside of Shiro’s throat as if he’s trying to dry-swallow one of the oversized vitamins that Sophie and Dr. Troy have him taking to help make up for all the nutrition that he’s denied himself for years, thanks to his eating disorder.

As he’s making small-talk with the turquoise-haired cashier and fessing up for his dye, Shiro forces himself to take deeper breaths than he should need, in this situation. Normal people wouldn’t struggle like someone’s holding their heads underwater, not while all they’re doing is buying something quick and easy at a Hot Topic. They wouldn’t feel like there’s a huge, heavy hand brushing over their throats, all because the air in the store is too overloaded and they looked for too long at a necklace that might fit too tightly around their necks.

At least Shiro gets what he wants, in that way. He clears out of the store, moving like he has a mission or like he’s the only one who’s seen the growing fire. Even with how many people come to the mall on Saturdays, Shiro breathes so much more easily. Simply getting away from the reek of incense makes him feel like there’s so much more room for him in the universe.

At least Sven doesn’t ask any questions about how quickly Shiro’s walking through the throngs of other shoppers, or about how tightly he clings to the handrail on the escalator, or about his abrupt need to claim a table at the food court and the fact that, once they make it there, Shiro only gets himself an oversized cup of black coffee. Unlike Slav, who pokes at anomalies like a stupid teenager in high school biology who’s screwing around instead of dissecting the stupid frog, Sven seems to have awareness of what boundaries are.

At least, when Shiro pulls out one of his journals, Sven nods that he doesn’t mind, if Shiro needs to write. As Shiro hunches over his black spiral-bound five-subject notebook — exactly like the ones that Keith used to prefer, because they’re better for keeping Shiro’s uncensored feelings and his drafts of song lyrics all together in one place — and starts jotting down everything that he was thinking about last night’s meeting, Sven agrees that this is fine, if it’s what Shiro thinks he needs. As he fills up page after page with all of the different, mixed up things roiling through him and making him wish his blood would boil his lungs, Sven cuts into this reverie only once, for the sake of saying exactly one thing: _“I’ll be right back, okay, yah?”_

With which, he pulls himself to his feet and slopes off into the food court.

By the time he comes back, Shiro’s starting up a fresh page, pinning it down with paperclips because writing with his left hand makes the paper curl up if he doesn’t. He catches a whiff of something heady and slightly sweet before Sven knocks his hip against the table. Shiro sees the plastic tray with a plate of some breaded, vaguely suspect orange sauce-drenched chicken from the Panda Express before he catches sight of Sven’s smiling face.

“This is okay, yah?” Sven keeps the smile up and actually makes Shiro believe in how polite and sweet he seems. “I mean, I know — or I mean, I don’t know? I’m only _guessing_ that you and Ryou wanted to get lunch together, right? Like you usually do?”

“If I texted him that I’m hungry, he wouldn’t mind me eating.” Not that Shiro feels up to explaining what kind of hornets’ nest Sven is unwittingly edging toward right now. But he probably just thinks that Shiro and Ryou are ridiculously close, because they’re twins, their only other Stateside family members all live out in Rancho Cucamonga, and Mom’s family in Nagasaki haven’t spoken to them since Shiro went to rehab. “Anyway, if _you’re_ hungry, then you shouldn’t need to wait on anybody else.”

Still, before he gets back to all his feelings about Keith, and what he did to Keith, and how he very nearly ruined Keith’s entire life by sheer force of being such a screw-up, Shiro scrawls a note to self in the upper left corner of his new page: _I hate how easily Sven can eat his stupid lunch. Why is it so hard. What is so_ ** _wrong_** _with me that I make this process so unnecessarily complicated?_

Not that Shiro really needs to ask that question. Nearly a year of therapy with Ulaz has shoved his face into more answers than he ever thought he’d get from anybody. Maybe not the exact answers that he wanted, or that Ryou wanted for him, but still: _answers_.

When his plate’s about halfway empty, Sven clears his throat. He has the awkward smile and the apprehensive air of a man who realizes that poking a sleeping dragon is probably not the best life choice he’s ever made, but he lost a bet to do so and doesn’t want to impugn his own trustworthiness by backing out. When his coughing doesn’t pull Shiro out of his notebook, Sven sighs and nudges his toes at Shiro’s ankle like he’s playing footsie with his boyfriend. He keeps it up until Shiro relents and looks him in the eye.

“Are you sure that you’re doing okay?” Sven blinks in the face of Shiro’s silence. Watches him push aside a stray clump of floppy black hair, then bats his foot at Shiro’s ankle again. “I’m only asking ‘cause it’s fine if you aren’t?”

“I’m…” Shiro starts, trailing off as no fewer than fourteen equally awful answers scream at him to put them out there. Dragging his hand back through his hair, he allows himself to sigh. “It can be kinda hard to tell, for me. But it’s not your fault or anything you’ve done.”

“Yah, no, I know it’s not my fault. I was just… Yanno, trying to be nice? Or considerate, at least?”

This makes Shiro’s brow furrow up before he knows what his face is doing. His lips press themselves together so tightly that he almost loses feeling. Squinting, he tries to take in every detail of Sven’s expression, as though he might find some hidden picture behind those bright, eager eyes and the barely discernible wobble to his smile. He only breaks off from Sven’s face to glance at the food still on his plate, then toward his midsection. Thank God, the table gets in the way of his view; Shiro doesn’t need to talk himself out of overly scrutinizing Sven’s stomach.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shaking his head and gently tapping his pen against the notebook. The blank space mocks him, especially after he spilled so many words all over the others with such ease. “None of what I’m dealing with is your fault. But effort appreciated, I guess?”

“Just ‘cause it’s not my fault doesn’t mean I can’t do what I can to help?” Sven hums pensively, and when Shiro glances up, he’s making a face like he can’t decide whether or not he phrased things exactly how he wanted. “I mean, maybe we only met today and all, but when somebody’s going through some rough stuff, isn’t it only right to offer them something? That’s what people do, right? Try and help each other out?”

Even if Shiro _could_ argue with that logic, he wouldn’t want to because Sven’s right.

Still, he doesn’t come up with anything to say — which makes Sven go on, “I don’t really know all of what you’re dealing with, though? But Ryou said that you can have a hard time, and with crowds, it can be messy? So, not to go taking it personally, if you’re not having a good day? And then when he was in the shower, Slav got mentioning stuff like, ‘Oh, you probably shouldn’t say anything too much in these veins of thought because there’s a good chance that they’ll set him off, or whichever’—”

“What did Slav tell you?” Inhaling sharply, Shiro twists his fingers tighter around his pen. “What did that little worm _say_.”

Sven blinks as though that’s the last response he expected. As he folds his hands on the table and wrings them, he can’t look Shiro in the eye. He looks like it’s taking a massive amount of effort to keep himself from outright squirming like a particularly guilty snake.

With a shrug, he explains, “He was just like, ‘Oh, in this reality, Takashi has this eating disorder thing, so on and so forth.’ And then, ‘Oh, there’s a eighty-four-some-odd-or-other percent chance that this is one of the many infinite realities where you might make a mess by saying that you’re all ninety-seven-and-a-half kilos, and Takashi takes it in the wrong way because of how these different mental wires are crossed for him.’ And when I wanted to ask him more, Ryou got back out and Slav wanted to make like we hadn’t been talking about…”

Wrinkling up his entire face, Sven toes at Shiro’s ankle again. “…Hey, Shiro? Are you—”

“I am going to _murder_ him.” Shiro’s pen clatters to his notebook. Groaning, he shoves his fingers into his hair, grinds the heels of his palm against his forehead. None of this makes him feel any less like he’s going to be sick, or pass out, or be sick and then pass out — but he knows where his voice is and he needs to use it. Just so Sven understands, Shiro whispers, “This is not your fault. You did the right thing by telling me. But I am going to _murder_ Slav.”

“I’m sorry.” Sven scoots closer to the table. Holding out a hand, he waits for Shiro to nod before he rubs at one of Shiro’s forearms. “I didn’t know that he didn’t have permission to talk about it.”

“Ryou and I told him about this in _confidence_.” He twists one hand further into his hair and tugs. “It took me _months_ to find a dietician I could work with. It’s taken _longer_ to figure out everything I know about what I’m dealing with — and I still keep finding new stuff. New _issues_ that I need to work on. But of course, all Slav noticed? Is that Ryou’s skinny brother gets weird about food. Which is _obviously_ some kind of problem that Slav needs to poke with a stick because why _wouldn’t_ he. I mean, the problem is _there_ where he can see it, right?”

Even though Slav is his friend too, Sven nods sympathetically. Even though Shiro needs a few deep breaths before he feels like he can go on, Sven stays quiet. Weirdly enough, it doesn’t feel like he’s merely waiting for his turn to speak; it feels like he wants to listen.

More than anything else, the idea that Sven is _listening_ gets Shiro to sigh softly and stop pulling on his hair. He pulls his back from Sven, but only so he can fold his arms up on the table and rest on his elbows. Slouching like this doesn’t make Shiro feel any better. But at least Sven doesn’t judge him for not having the energy reserves to stay sitting up like someone who vaguely resembles one of the adults that they’re supposed to be. Staying quiet, he reaches over and gently pats Shiro on the shoulder. Without using his words, it’s like Sven wants to give Shiro permission to be some kind of mess.

“I’ve fought myself _so hard_ since I moved out here, y’know?” Shiro’s head bows like his neck can’t handle all the thoughts clogging up his mind. “It’s been so much work, and I’m _still_ only halfway to where we’ve decided that I need to be. I haven’t even gotten to where I was _before_ I checked in for treatment. Then, you break it down further into muscle vs. fat, and how I have too much of the former, not enough of the latter. On Thursday with my therapist? We have so much to work on, but we split the session between _two_ things because I’m just…”

Sven gives his bicep a squeeze. It feels like he’s saying, _“You might be doing better than you think.”_

Letting his shoulders droop helps Shiro take a deeper, more satisfying breath. Helps him look up to meet Sven’s eyes, for all he needs to flip his hair aside. “And handling all of that, physically, it won’t magically make everything all better? Getting my weight back up, I mean? That won’t fix everything. It’s only part of so many bigger _things_ , for me.”

Saying those words aloud makes Shiro gulp, then flinch. But another few pats from Sven steadies him again.

If only Shiro could keep that up when he looks back to Sven’s face. For once, that smile he insists wearing doesn’t look easy. His lips strain to curl up at all, much less hold that position. Even so, Sven’s _trying_ , and his eyes have a glimmer to them that’s so hopeful, Shiro has to avert his eyes and glance around the food court. God, he’s only meeting Sven for the first time today and already, Shiro’s unloading this garbage that Sven never asked to deal with.

Hell, he barely dodged the impulse to admit that it’s been five days since the anniversary of his suicide attempt. Regardless of what Slav blabbed to Sven about Shiro’s eating disorder, neither of them knows about him knocking back thirteen hits of Vicodin with an oversized glass of Cuervo. Ryou wouldn’t tell them about that, and Shiro definitely hasn’t. Therefore, they must be ignorant.

So help him, Shiro’s going to keep it that way. Because neither Slav nor Sven _needs_ to know about him deliberately trying to administer a fatal overdose. Besides, Slav would probably put Shiro on blast about it all over Facebook. Which, in turn, would lead to Shiro’s location getting outed, even though he hasn’t made a new account. Maurice would find him. He’d come out here to drag Shiro back to Chicago. He’d be _furious_ , maybe even enough to commit a murder, over having his authority so blatantly flouted, over his _sweet boy_ ever thinking that he had any right to get away from Maurice when Shiro _belonged_ to him, like property, like a pretty, broken little trinket for him to flash at anyone who’d look. His hands would curl around Shiro’s biceps, holding him in place while making him bow his head and fasten his old collar around his neck. And then, Maurice would laugh, low and humid and snarling, breath hot and muggy against the exposed skin of Shiro’s neck—

Shiro jabs his thumb at the bridge of his nose. Gasps sharply. No. No, no, no — none of that is happening. Not right now.

Swallowing thickly and trying to breathe, Shiro combs his eyes over the other patrons who’ve all piled into the food court. Over by the Sbarro, a short, pointy-faced, round-hipped woman waits at the end of a queue with three boys, none of them looking that much older than seven. They seem like more than a handful, running circles around her, tugging at each other’s arms and hair. But as she tells them something, she has a beatific smile, as if she can imagine nothing better than being here with those pint-sized nightmares.

A pair of tall, older guys sit at a table, angled toward each other as if the rest of the world could easily disappear. One is spindly with light brown skin, a cleanly shaven head, and a blocky jaw, while the other has a chin so pointy, he might’ve put it through a pencil sharpener and such wide, blue eyes that Shiro can see them gleam from here. Resting his cheek in his palm, the blue-eyed one scoops ice cream out of an oversized cup from the Häagen-Dazs and holds a spoon up to his companion’s mouth. As the Bruce Willis wannabe grins and lets this happen, Shiro spots the gold bands glimmering on their left hands.

With a soft sigh, he drags his eyes over to a different table, which has three people sitting at it, looking somewhat horribly mismatched. The furthest away from Shiro is another older guy, pale and ginger-haired, with a large nose and even larger handlebar mustache. Admittedly, it looks gorgeous, as far as mustaches go… but it’s still a handlebar mustache, sitting over his lip and looking like it might be halfway sentient. He must be getting ready for a local play — or, if Lance has never heard of a guy like this, then maybe he’s a Civil War reenactor, or a live-action role-player, or an actor at the Renaissance Festival, or something along those lines — because there is no way that anyone in the twenty-first century would wear a mustache like that without some kind of outlandish explanation.

Also: who else but a thespian (and maybe Lance, a perpetual theatre kid) would wear a pin-striped violet vest and an off-white top with a ruffled collar and billowing sleeves, looking like some wannabe pirate captain, to go to the _mall_? On a _Saturday_?

Sitting to the right of handlebar mustache guy, there’s a girl with dark brown skin and a cloud of fluffy, silvery-looking hair that she’s barely tamed back into a ponytail. Or she might be a young woman, maybe, Shiro guesses. She looks about Keith’s age, and he’ll be going on twenty-one, wherever he is. Either way, she sits on the flimsy plastic food court chair as if she’s sitting on a throne and her short, sugar-pink dress might’ve cost two of Lance’s paychecks from the record store. It looks nice on her, showing off a set of long, toned legs she’s obviously worked hard to get because no one on Earth is born with stems like that. Not even winning the genetic lottery could give her that — _especially_ not if she’s in the habit of laughing so casually while digging into a treat from Ben and Jerry’s, the way she’s doing now.

Good for her that she can do such things, though. Shiro would probably only eat a sundae like that if he were wasted and miserable enough to feel like nothing was worth the effort. Then, he’d make himself throw up, scrub out the inside of his mouth for half an hour, send Ryou and Lotor some garbled, messy drunk texts by way of confession, and wait for one of them, or Hunk, or Lance to come join him. Maybe even Matt. Maybe he’d bring Katie with him. Whoever got over to Shiro, Hunk, and Lance’s apartment first, really.

Shiro cringes as that mental reverie peters out. He’s gonna need to jot it down in his therapy journal, along with the running tally he keeps of similar thoughts and daydreams. When his head is clearer? When he’s temporarily over feeling like he only wants to lie in his bedroom with the shades drawn and the lights off, listening to “Careless Whisper” or Fiona Apple’s “Paper Bag” on an ad nauseam loop until Lance invites himself in, asks what he can do, then gives everything a miss and bodily drags Shiro to the kitchen for dinner? When he’s feeling as close to _better_ as he ever gets, Shiro will need to go over some recent entries in this tally, picking out some common themes and ideas that tie them all together, sussing out reasons why he’s felt these ways and coming up with plans for what to do about it.

For now, though, Shiro simply lets himself look at the guy sitting across from the pretty, pretty princess, to the handlebar mustache guy’s left. Probably about the same age as the princess (and by extension, the same age as Keith), he’s pale and sharp around the edges, in a loose red t-shirt and black jeans with a ripped out knee. Slightly bedraggled, that guy hasn’t had his floppy, black hair cut in a while (not that Shiro’s in any place to judge, considering he hasn’t, either). Hunched around his own ice cream as if he expects someone to take it from him, he reminds Shiro of a cat. Specifically, he seems like the sort of half-feral street cat who’s probably been through the wringer, has a piece of one ear missing, and hisses like it will literally fight you for looking at it funny — until you offer it some food, and water, and TLC, and it melts into the affection that it has so desperately wanted for.

While Shiro’s squinting at the cattish guy, the handlebar mustache guy makes an exit for the restroom. With a broad, radiant grin, the pretty, pretty princess scoots right up close to the table. She reaches across and tucks some of cattish guy’s hair behind his ear. As he leans his cheek into her palm, his expression stops ferreting around, stops shifting, and softens into a wam, fond smile. He might as well have cartoon hearts and stars raining down around him, and when she leans over and kisses him, Shiro needs to force himself not to coo or _“awww”_ about how sweet these strangers are together. That would be creepy, and weird, and in all likelihood, Shiro would need to explain himself to Sven.

Which, in turn, would at best be an incredibly awkward train-wreck, because there’s no good way to say, _“I fell in love with this guy, back in Chicago. And that guy over there? Well, he looks so much like Keith that it’s almost eerie. There’s no way that it’s really him, I think he went to school in New York after we got separated and I broke his heart like a complete monster? But wherever he is, these days? I hope that Keith’s as happy as those two are.”_

Even so, taking in the sight of the happy couple — the sight of _any_ of these happy, normal strangers — soothes Shiro’s nerves. No matter what kind of mess he might or might not look like, at any given time? None of them know exactly what he’s been through.

Maybe someday, he’ll even be able to pass among them, convincing people that he’ll never see again that he’s totally fine, that he has never been anything but totally fine, and that he knows absolutely nothing about being so low that you want to die. 

Huffing softly, Shiro supposes that he should say something to Sven, now that he’s calmed back down.

Instead, over the din of other shoppers’ voices, Shiro picks out the tune he’d always recognize. After all, it was one of his Mom’s favorites and he’s only known this song for as long as he can consciously remember. Whoever’s on the mall’s speaker system must’ve put on a classic rock station, and God, they had good timing. Whatever the real story is, Shiro hums along with the opening lines, with the whole first verse. He doesn’t intend to do anything else. Nothing to draw attention to himself and Sven, at least.

But as Elton John repeats the chorus, Shiro can’t help it. He sings along, _“And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time—”_

 _“‘Til touchdown brings me ‘round again to find_ ,” Sven echoes, smiling gently.

Together, they sing, “ _I’m not the man they think I am at home. I’m a rocket man_!”

“ _Rocket maaaaan! Burning out his fuse up here, aloooone!_ ” Sven croons — and if not for the buzzing in his pocket, Shiro would join him.

Except the mall picked a good time to decide that Shiro has reception on his phone. For one thing, he needed to see the text that Lotor sent him: _“Please don’t kill your brother’s roommate today, darling. I can’t kiss your beautiful face if you go to prison”_ with the purple heart emoji that he likes so much.

For another thing, the most recent text from Ryou says, _“I need help. By the fountain. Something’s wrong with Slav.”_

Showing that one to Sven makes him sigh as if something he’s worried about has come to pass. As if Slav has pulled stunts like whatever’s going on before and Sven’s entire soul has grown weary of trying to deal with these incidents. Still, he rushes through cleaning up his lunch while Shiro shoves his notebook and hair dye into his bag.

As they dart off into the crowd, Shiro decides it’s probably better not to push Sven about what they might be getting into. Respecting boundaries has to be a two-way street, and if Slav is being entirely himself again, they’ll need all the energy that they can spare to rein him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could I have resisted the temptation to pointlessly have Shiro and Sven sing Sir Elton John’s “[Rocket Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEAjTVOdWCA)”? Yes. But if I may pose an alternative question: why would I want to resist said temptation when the low-hanging fruit was right there?


	4. Tuesday, November 11th, 2014

There’s a place over on Charles Street, bigger than a hole in the wall but still tucked away like a dirty little secret, a few shades too intimate to be a diner but they have too many options to be a cafe, exactly. They call it Summer-Side Up, and Keith guesses that makes sense for a place that serves breakfast food all day. If not for the fact that the menu seems more than a bit overpriced — enough that Keith couldn’t let himself eat here without Allura invoking “girlfriend privileges” as an excuse to treat him to all these nice things that he can’t get used to — then he’d almost relent and call this place perfect.

Still, ending up in a booth here twice in as many Tuesdays? That seems like one of the many situations in life that should be happening to someone else. Specifically, to literally anyone but Keith Sarkance Kogane.

Regardless, he settles in beside Allura and opposite Shay and Regris, two of the history department’s graduate students. They normally don’t hang out with undergrads, but Keith and Allura are both older than most of the other sophomores. They turned twenty-one a little over two weeks ago, whereas the others in their class have a median age of nineteen. Moreover, Keith and Allura have gotten themselves into upper-level and legitimate graduate-level courses. Excluding the one that Keith unofficially audited last year by simply showing up to class and doing the work that Kolivan assigned, he and Allura largely only take the undergrad courses that they’re required to take in order to eventually graduate.

So, it probably doesn’t strike Shay and Regris as that weird, being PhD students and going out for dinner with a pair of go-getter assholes who only started at Kaltenecker U last year. At least, Keith _hopes_ that this situation doesn’t strike Shay and Regris as that weird because he likes them more than pretty much anyone in his and Allura’s undergrad classes, and personally, he can’t get his head around the very idea that Shay and Regris would want to spend time around him, period. That concept seems so outlandish that it could serves as the backbone for an episode of _Star Trek_ that would go down in television history by sheer virtue of notorious shittiness. Allura, sure, it makes sense that Shay and Regris might want to befriend her — who _wouldn’t_ want to spend time with Allura?

But as he orders the cheeseburger with sunny-side-up eggs on top, Keith needs to knead his thumb along his knuckles, just to remind himself that this is real. He’s awake, and alive, and sitting in an expensive diner that’s unlike anywhere he ever should’ve been able to get in his entire sorry life. Moreover, he’s sitting here with a girlfriend who loves him, and with two PhD students from his department who _must_ have better things to do than trying to play nice with a surly, ill-tempered underclassman. Which Keith should be happy about — except for the part where, moment to moment, his mind keeps wanting him to think that none of this is real.

On the plus, their little group got set up pretty close to a television tonight and the volume is cranked up enough for Keith to hear the evening news. If he needs to remember where the line is between reality and fantasy? Then, the news is as good a way to get there as anything. After all, the news almost never plays anything that’s good enough to make Keith wonder whose life he wandered into and when someone’s going to realize that he doesn’t belong there.

When Keith came here with Allura, Shay, and Regris last week, they lucked out in a similar way. They sat on the other side of the restaurant, but they were close enough to a TV that they spent the night drinking potentially heart attack-inducing amounts of coffee and watching coverage of the midterm elections. Tonight, though, they’ve moved on to covering Washington, DC gossip about some of the potential ramifications of the midterm elections. How it might affect people on the ground, up here in Massachusetts. Who thinks what about which predicted nonsense that will no doubt accompany the annual Black Friday sales, even though they’re still two weeks off.

Maybe none of it’s quite as shockingly awful as reality can get — but in a way, that’s its own form of comfort. Mundane prattling about situations that happen to be less-than-ideal, as opposed to full-throttle suffering. Tedium can be grounding, when you constantly have an itch to _do something_.

Keith must space out a bit too much, though, because before he knows it? Allura’s nudging his shoulder to shake him around, smiling so much more than Keith deserves, and pointing out that Regris asked him something.

Getting a bleary, half-baked apology makes Regris smirk playfully. “No harm done, but? Ground control to Major Tom, indeed.”

“I don’t take protein pills and I’ve got no reason to wear a helmet,” Keith deadpans before he can think that this might not be the behavior of someone who is genuinely sorry for losing track of a conversation with other humans. Normal people, when they’re sorry for things, allegedly try to do a better job of feigning respect. “Anyway, uh… What’s up, I guess?”

Pushing up his wire-rim glasses and shaking out his bouncy, black ponytail, Regris shrugs. “I simply asked how it goes in your quest to become Kolivan’s advisee. Antok hasn’t complained about his husband complaining about you, lately. The radio silence makes me curious.”

With a heavy sigh, Keith slouches back in the booth and starts tying a discarded straw-wrapper up in knots. “Kolivan and I might be at an impasse right now. Or, like… We might be stuck in the Cold War of me trying to win him over.”

Shay knots her brow and tilts her head. “Where are the metaphorical nuclear weapons, in this analogy?”

Keith quirks his shoulders. “I mean, we might not metaphorically nuke each other like the US and the Soviet Union? But we’re at a point where nothing’s happening because I’m running out of ideas for ways to impress him, and he’s running out of busywork to throw at me in the hopes of making me get sick of him and go away.”

“Perhaps the busywork hasn’t been meant like that, exactly?” With a small, hopeful smile, Allura hooks her ankle behind Keith’s underneath the table. “We have _assumed_ that Kolivan merely wanted to push you away, but… What if he is trying to make you realize something about yourself, instead? Or what if he thinks there is some greater purpose to this exercise? Something that he is trying to teach you?”

“Then I sure could use a fucking road-map to his intentions, Princess. Because I am honest to fuck completely clueless.” Keith huffs and barely fights off the impulse to roll his eyes. “Seriously, the best guess that I _had_ was, ‘Kolivan is putting me through the wringer, treating me like a glorified secretary and not a student, trying to outdo Meryl Streep’s character from _The Devil Wears Prada_ , and being fucking _obnoxious_ about everything? Because he hates me and he thinks that I will literally ever quit, or back down, or stop going after what I want here.’”

The next impulse that Keith chokes down says that it would feel so good — that everything would honestly feel _so much better_ — if he’d just let himself smack the back of his head against the booth. There’s a cushion, so he wouldn’t do any _real_ damage, probably. He’d be fine. But the impact and the _thwack!_ -ing sound would give him such a good, hot, satisfying rush…

Except Keith doesn’t let himself do that. He only sighs and supposes, “If Kolivan _isn’t_ trying to see how far he can push me with this tedious, office-monkey, errand-running garbage? Then I’ve got no idea what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.”

That being said, no one at this table deserves Keith’s fully justified and understandable frustration with the head of their department. More than anyone, Allura deserves to always have Keith at his best. Just so she at least knows that he isn’t upset with her and that he doesn’t think that her idea is a bad one, Keith laces his fingers up with hers. He means to leave the public displays of affection at that little one considering how they’re here with two people who are not dating anybody, as far as Keith knows. It’s only polite for him and Allura to _avoid_ shoving their relationship in Shay’s and Regris’s faces.

But then Allura gives Keith one of those borderline-magical smiles that she pulls out sometimes. The ones that light up her entire face, no matter how much she restrains herself at any given time. Her big, beautiful, blue-green eyes glimmer up at him with so much hope for the future — with so much belief in him that Keith doesn’t remotely deserve to have — and his breath catches behind his Adam’s apple. His face tries to catch fire and his entire chest floods with a feeling that he can only describe as _pink_. It’s like fireworks going off inside his lungs. It’s like he’s drowning in a heated swimming pool, and instead of water, the pool is filled with chocolate sauce. It’s bright, and it’s warm, and it’s _pink_ , and Keith feels like he’s vibrating down to the bone marrow with a need to yell at the entire restaurant about how much he loves this woman who lets him call her, _“Princess.”_

Before his internal monologue decides to screw him over further by blasting Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” until Keith does something irreparably fucking stupid, Keith inhales sharply. Squeezing Allura’s hand, he darts in to kiss the corner of her full, perfect mouth. He doesn’t let go of her, once he’s done — but he _does_ slump into the booth again and squirms around like he’s trying to bury himself in the freaking cushion.

Which doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea, aside from the part where he’d probably need to pay actual money for it.

Giggling fondly, Allura brushes her thumb along the back of Keith’s hand. She applies enough pressure in the exact way that Keith likes best, likely all to let him know that he’s fine, and everything is fine, and no one thinks any less of him for what just happened. When this coaxes a throaty, bemused sound out of him and his hair flops over his eyes, she squeezes his hand like he did for her.

“You know I may be rusty on my Classics,” Regris deadpans, his tone sounding an awful lot like the vocal equivalent of his playful smirks. “But I was under the apparently mistaken impression that Helen of Sparta launched a thousand ships. Not that she perpetrated such a concentrated assault on _one_ great warrior’s ability to remember where his brain goes.”

Which should probably annoy the shit out of Keith to hear. It should probably hack up his central nervous system with a weed-whacker and leave him ready to scream in more frustration than he’s endured lately from anyone else but Kolivan.

Except Regris says all this so easily. And he smiles as if he’s actually happy to be here. As if it means absolutely nothing for him to enjoy being literally anywhere with Keith, acting like they might genuinely enjoy each other’s company under any circumstances — and even though Keith _knows_ that’s a pretty far-off thing to hope for? Even though he knows that there’s no way it will ever come to pass in the simple way that his brain is trying to misconstrue things, at the moment? Even though Regris has bigger and better things to do — like the plan he’s writing up for some big research trip around Eastern Europe — Keith lets himself smile.

“Sing, O Muse, of the romantically flustered-ness of Achilles,” Regris drawls, rotating one hand on his wrist in a way that makes Keith imagine him sharing slam poetry on-stage in a dusky coffee-shop, while dressed in a tight black turtleneck and a floppy black beret, with a Salvador Dalí mustache and a clove cigarette in-hand. “Sing of the son of Thetis, and how he found himself felled by love for the fairest of nymphs. How one smile from her was enough to remove his expansive verbal capacity, as if he had angered the great gods of Olympus and been cursed back to his infancy—”

“Didn’t you just claim to be _rusty_ on your Classics,” Shay cuts in, openly snickering. “‘Cause it sure doesn’t sound that way to me.”

“No, he’s definitely rusty,” Keith’s mouth spits out before he can think it over, and make an actual decision about whether or not this is a good idea. “If he remembered a goddamn thing from the _Iliad_ , then he’d know I’m totally a Patroclus, not an Achilles.”

“Oh, _really_?” Regris perks up. Wearing a brighter smile than Keith has ever seen on his face before, he folds up his hands, rests his chin on top of them, and leans toward Keith and Allura’s side of the table as if they’re conspiring. “Allura, do tell. Can you confirm or deny which of these aforementioned great bisexual Greek heroes Keith takes after more?”

Allura takes a deep breath and hums faux-pensively. “Well, unlike you, I am _not_ rusty on my Classics,” she says with a sigh that doesn’t bother trying to sound intellectual. “Which school of thought about them are we favoring for the purposes of this discussion? Because if we mean to cast Achilles as the Greek active in their relationship—”

“If we’re relying on any school of thought about them, can it be the one that _doesn’t_ talk about how Achilles and Patroclus were in bed together?” Sinking in the booth, Keith clings to Allura’s hand. “Or, I don’t know, how they were in _tent_ together? Or wherever they wanted to fuck each other at any given time? Can we just… y’know, _not_ go right to the sex place with them?”

Keith ducks his chin as his cheeks flush hot, hoping that his increasingly floppy hair might give him somewhere he can hide. He _definitely_ snapped more than he meant to. That objection sounded so much more reasonable in his head, before he allowed himself to say it.

If he were actually blushing over the idea of talking about his and Allura’s sex life, then that would be one thing. It would be understandable, and it would make sense in ways that are easily comprehensible to the three people he’s sharing dinner with. No, it wouldn’t be Keith’s _favorite_ thing to talk about in the entire world, ever. For starters: Allura likes being vocal and appreciative, no matter what they decide to do together, and there isn’t always a guarantee that they’ll be quiet enough to dodge any sort of commentary from her Father and/or Coran, which is always a trip to the most awkward level of Hell, no matter how open Allura’s parents are about sex, or how much they support her and Keith in continuing to have it with each other — but that would still be infinitely preferable to going in the direction that he really meant.

Considering the bear Allura and Regris have unwittingly been poking — _Yeah, a six-foot-three, Japanese-American bear who isn’t actually a bear in the way that you apply that term to human beings, who shouldn’t matter the way he does because he’s gone, who could’ve done so much more with himself but he gave up everything for me instead…_ — Keith is well within his rights to avoid that subject.

In the meantime, he balls his free hand up in his jeans. He scrapes the denim along his palm, hoping that it quells the desire to claw himself up until he draws blood. It doesn’t, not really. But it _does_ remind him of how he needs to say something, before everybody at the table realizes that he’s a total fake, and irreparably broken, and in the simplest terms, Keith doesn’t belong here and he never did.

When Allura squeezes his hand, Keith sighs. “Sorry, I… I just meant, like? ‘Greek active’ and ‘Greek passive’ are for when guys have sex with each other. Which obviously isn’t happening with me and Allura, so?”

She gives him a _Look_ that says she doesn’t believe that explanation, even though she knows that the words are factually accurate.

On the other hand, though, Allura kisses his cheek. “We’ll move on to something else then, darling.”

They do keep that promise. But for his part, Keith spaces out again. Clinking the ice cubes around his glass of Coke, he turns his eyes back up to the TV. As he drains the rest of his drink, some news anchor promises that after the next commercial break, they’re going to air a special report on America’s growing epidemic of prescription opioid abuse, and how many lives have been claimed by it, so far.

Keith gulps. He grinds his teeth. He only comes down enough to thank the waitress because Allura taps him on the shoulder to let him know that their food has arrived. The commercials have nothing to do with opiates — not unless Tony the Tiger is putting something other than sugar on the Frosted Flakes, these days — but Keith can’t make himself look away. The closest he gets is choking down a couple french fries in a token nod toward eating dinner like an adult who gives a damn whether he lives or dies, the way that Keith’s supposed to be.

This is so stupid. Why would Lester Holt, filling in for Brian Williams, have anything to tell Keith about Shiro?

Granted, that’s probably a good thing. If nothing else, Shiro hasn’t turned into a tragedy so big and notable that he ends up on an NBC news special report. None of the interviews with family members devastated by the opioids crisis feature Ryou or their aunts or any of their cousins. Keith could read into the talking-head clips with different doctors, when they start mentioning specific patients’ stories — but they couldn’t break confidentiality all over national TV without the patient or their next-of-kin giving consent. Shiro probably wouldn’t have done that, if he’s in any condition to tell his own story. If he isn’t, then Ryou definitely wouldn’t give any of his brother’s doctors permission to talk about Shiro like this. Besides, the doctors have come from Kansas, Maine, New Hampshire, West Virginia, and Ohio, places that Shiro has never lived, as far as Keith knows. They’re probably not talking about Shiro, then. How could they be?

As the show drags on, it gets harder for Keith to keep himself together. He makes himself eat during commercial breaks because that’s what he should be doing. Because that’s what the Keith he wants to be would do. But every time Lester Holt returns to the screen, Keith twists his hands up in a series of napkins that quickly end up in a heap of shreds down on the table. Part of his brain screams at him to put his head on Allura’s shoulder because who cares who sees him doing it. Because her shoulders are strong and comfortable, and her body is warm and familiar, and she always smells like the sweet-but-spicy body wash she likes and her favorite mountain juniberry flower perfume.

Because one of his _“boyfriend privileges”_ is that Keith can ask her for reassurance when he wants to, even though she insists that this is only a privilege because Keith is special to her and she wouldn’t be quite so affectionate with anyone else. Aside from the matter of physical intimacy, offering Keith comfort is simply basic decency, in Allura’s mind.

An even louder part of his brain, however, reminds Keith of two very good arguments for why he _shouldn’t_ allow himself to flop onto Allura like a rag-doll. First of all, there is literally no reason why Keith should _need_ any reassurance, at the moment, because as far as anyone else at this table knows, there’s no reason for him to get upset about this news report. He and Allura are at a local diner with two of the people from their department who don’t find them obnoxious and annoying.

They’re doing something that perfectly normal couples do every single day, as if she _doesn’t_ have panic attacks to see herself through. As if she doesn’t deal with night terrors that soak her bed in cold sweat. As if she doesn’t have risk-taking behaviors and a sporadic lack of impulse-control, especially when she’s made herself go for too long without release, pretending that she really is so prim and perfect, like she doesn’t want to take one of Alfor’s fancy-ass, high-end luxury sports-cars out for an ill-advised joy-ride — except for the candy apple red Jaguar F-type SVR convertible, which Alfor never lets anybody else drive. As if she doesn’t have any certain combative tendencies that come out _hard_ when someone pushes her in the exact wrong ways because she can’t stand the idea that there are some problems in the world that she can’t solve by simply fighting hard enough.

They’re doing something that shouldn’t faze them. They’re doing it as if Keith _isn’t_ completely broken but halfway decent at faking like he isn’t. Allura’s smiling at Shay and sipping on her Cherry Coke like nothing’s wrong, and so, Keith should at least put effort into keeping up the ruse.

Secondly of all, Keith and Allura are sitting on the wrong sides for leaning on her to do what Keith hypothetically wants to get from this. If _she_ were sitting by the aisle, then maybe Keith would take comfort in leaning on her. But, since she’s sitting by the window while he sits on the aisle, leaning on Allura’s shoulder would mostly feel funny. Unbalanced. Inexplicably wrong in ways that _normal_ people could never understand because Keith doesn’t understand them either and there’s no good, solid, logical reason for the direction that he tilts his head to make any significant difference.

Except, unfortunately, for his brain’s stupid, broken insistence that such things are, in fact, a monumentally big deal.

Just like how his brain insists that this NBC news special report is any kind of big deal to Keith, personally. Maybe it is, but that’s no reason for his mind to act like that when he’s sitting out in a semi-public place, poking his way through an admittedly decent cheeseburger surrounded by people who can watch the same piece of televised journalism without remotely losing their heads. The Keith that he should be? He wouldn’t feel like he could just about vomit, hearing so many people on the screen denounce addicts in terms that Keith wouldn’t apply to a dog who pissed on the carpet, much less to a fellow human being.

“I wouldn’t wish the struggles of opiate addiction on any family,” says one so-called doctor, who works at an alleged inpatient rehab clinic somewhere in south Florida. “So many times, we’ve heard the exact same story: someone who was bright and talented and had the entire universe ahead of him or her? Until they got their hands on pills, and they looked at the junk, and they decided that a fix meant more to them than anything else in life.”

 _Oh, what the fuck do you know_ , Keith doesn’t let himself say — because saying these things aloud would make him look completely insane. _Have you interviewed literally every addict in the entire country? Because unless you have, then who are you to say that’s true of everybody who has a problem with Vicodin or Percocet?_

The shot cuts to another interview, this one with a white woman from Oregon who lost her daughter to an Oxycontin habit. “She used to be such a brilliant girl,” says Mama Wossname, fussing with her expensive-looking pearl necklace but refusing to clutch it in front of the cameras, probably because she knows how that would look. “She was the top of her class all through high school. She got into Stanford, early admission. Top of her class there, too — but everything changed after she got that surgery.”

Mama Wossname chokes down about ninety percent of a sob. The ten percent that creaks its way up and out of her, though? Still sounds like glass shattering, right up in Keith’s ear. It still cuts down to the pit of his chest, clawing up his insides as though she knows that Keith is watching and she personally wants to rend into him, tearing apart his insides and hacking his entire soul to pieces. Why she’d want to do that to him, Keith has no idea — but he knows how he feels. It’s irrational and stupid — but at least it’s _his_ emotional response.

“I never thought that it could happen to _my_ family.” Mama Wossname twists her fingers up so tightly in the necklace. It’s a miracle that she doesn’t rip it apart and send those overpriced, gleaming gemstones scattering across the floor. “I never thought one of _my_ children — one of the people I love — could turn from someone amazing, with promise, with such a beautiful future? Into a _junkie_. A monster. I never thought that someone I loved could _die_ from this, you know? It was always… something that happened to _other_ people.”

Keith grabs up one of the scraps of former-napkin, just so he won’t need to reach over Allura and get a new one. The dispenser’s along the wall, and it would be so much more satisfying for Keith to shred up something that he hasn’t already had his hands on. Something that’s still whole and thick with promise, with ever-so-slightly more wrapped up in it to tear. But then, he might not be able to keep his eyes on the report. he might miss something important that someone has to say. Somewhat more pressingly, he might inconvenience Allura or discomfit her — more than he already does, at that — and she would get upset about the temporary intrusion into her personal space. Especially since Keith would be doing it in the name of making a mess all over a table that they’re sharing with two other people.

Even if she didn’t want to let herself be mad at Keith, Allura would deserve the chance to do so.

But regardless of how Allura feels, Mama Wossname can’t be stopped, now that she’s tearing up for the interviewer. “As a parent? You try to do right by your children,” she pleads. As if anyone who’s listening can offer her the absolution that she craves so badly. “You try to raise them right. Try to teach them good morals and personal strength. So, for something like this to happen? Watching that sweet little girl you’ve raised give up on herself, and _debase_ herself like that? Watching her fall so low, no matter what you try to do for her, and watching…”

Mama Wossname inhales sharply. Chokes herself on another sob, but once more can’t repress it all the way. “It’s disgusting. _Devastating_. To know that you can’t do anything for your own child. To watch her refuse, over and over and over again, to let you do _anything_ for her. And these people… They don’t care anymore. Not about the pain that they cause, or any of it. As long as they can destroy themselves.”

 _Yeah, and I bet that you had nothing to do with this_ ** _before_** _she got addicted. I bet you were always a perfect parent and you never did anything to push her toward any of the problems that she wound up with_ , Keith muses, glaring daggers up at the screen. _I bet you_ ** _never_** _, ever treated her like she was just an extension of yourself._

Maybe he can’t scream this at Mama Wossname. Maybe everyone who sees her on this report will feel sorry for her. Maybe they’ll feel so sad about her loss and how much it hurt her and everything that her daughter probably did wrong, and they’ll all decide — whether together or independently — to mollycoddle this miserable, wretched, pathetic excuse for a parent. But _someone_ should take Mama Wossname to task. _Someone_ should call her out on acting like everything she’s talking about — acting like her _daughter’s_ story and her _daughter’s_ pain — is all about _herself_.

In the meantime, the shot jumps over to one of another doctor with Coke-bottle glasses and a pointy, hairless face like a naked mole rat. He was on earlier in the report and Keith didn’t like him then, either. But now, he’s sitting at his nice-looking desk, with his multiple nice-looking degrees hanging on the wall behind him. He has a nice-looking paperweight sitting by one elbow, and all over, he looks so much more respectable than any of the addicts who’ve gotten featured in this sideshow and its pseudo-educational narrative. Increasingly, Keith wonders whom this garbage is meant to inform about literally anything.

The piece is supposed to be about the people who’ve actually been harmed by the opioids crisis. But aside from the two human success stories who got clean and stayed that way for long enough that the NBC producers decided to proclaim them healed, all of the addicts have been shown as the _monsters_ that Mama Wossname wants them to be. The piece has flashed their mugshots and pictures of them at their lowest points. Photos of them from personal social media accounts, in which they’re emaciated and bedraggled, looking like little more than skeletons with a tissue paper covering of skin. One woman got a photo of her snorting a mashed up Vicodin paraded in front of a national audience, then everyone acted like this was fine because she died six months ago.

Excluding the two success stories, a grand total of _one_ addict has been allowed to sit in front of the cameras and speak for themself. There are clips of the successes back when they were still using — both videos were apparently taken when these people checked themselves in at inpatient rehab clinics — but only a Ms. Courtney Hart of Portland, Maine has gotten the chance to talk in her own voice. The production crew did nothing to fix her hair, letting it stay a matted, bleach blonde nest that looked like she was just out dumpster-diving. If they put any makeup on her, then it only made her pallor even more unhealthy-looking, and the harsh way that they lit her played up the sharp angles and deep hollows of her face until she looked only partly human.

Nothing like the consideration that Doctor Rat-Face gets from production. Whoever set things up and turned his office into a makeshift sound-stage, they decided to light him and make him up in a way that emphasizes the hints of pink in his otherwise sallow face. He’s positioned so that his nose and mouth look less like a snout, unless he forgets to mind his angles and turns in the wrong way. The people behind NBC’s cameras are trying their damnedest to make him look human in such sympathy-inducing fashions that, apparently, they’ve decided the addicts in this piece don’t deserve.

“What these people — what these _addicts_ — don’t see,” Doctor Rat-Face proselytizes. “What they pointedly refuse to understand is that there _is_ still hope. They don’t _need_ to be chained to their pasts or to their previous failings. They only need to shore up the necessary courage, find the fortitude within themselves, and push their way back to good health — before it’s too late. Before their loved ones lose them forever.”

Keith’s breath shocks into him and for a moment, all he can do is blink up at the screen. At a stock footage clip that plays while Lester Holt throws out so many words that Keith _recognizes_ but can’t connect to any meanings. Not right now.

Beside him, Allura makes a gentle, sympathetic noise. She nudges her shoulder into his. It sounds like she’s asking if he’s okay, so Keith nods. Because he _should_ be fine. Everything should be fine. There’s no reason for him to feel like he has a tempest pent up inside his chest, like he’s sitting on a storm that’s going to destroy everyone else if he’s given enough leeway to do so. Nothing about this evening should make Keith feel like this and there’s no reason for any of this — except for the fact that he _does_ feel this.

Only one course of action promises to make any sense of things: Keith needs to go.

Shoving himself up, he promises to be right back. He ducks out the diner’s side-door. A few different employees have made their exits there before him, and out in the alley, Keith can smell a faint after-image of someone’s cigarette. Perfect. A free excuse to cover his face, just in case anyone else might wander by. Trying to block the alleged stink by breathing the smell of his own palms — that way, Keith can deny other people the chance to watch him cry. If the tears ever start. If his eyes stop teasing him with the feeling that someone’s trying to set them on fire but refuse to water.

No, hiding in this way doesn’t _work_ — not as well as it could and no doubt _would_ , if Keith weren’t so obviously _broken_ — but as his back hits the brick wall, Keith doesn’t care. As he shrinks into the corner between that surface and a dumpster, he digs his fingertips so hard at the bridge of his nose that he wonders if he’ll leave bruises. That’d be a Hell of a thing to explain to Allura. Never mind trying to explain the situation to Coran, to Alfor, to Fala, Allura’s mother, if she shows up for Thanksgiving earlier and the hypothetical bruises still haven’t healed by then, to Thace because he’s still technically Keith’s advisor and he takes questions of Keith’s well-being seriously, even though he shouldn’t because Keith’s pulled himself out of so many worse places than this before…

He doesn’t know how long he spends out here. The air around him is light, and dry, and chilly. Not as bad as it could be, given Massachusetts. Nowhere near as bad as Chicago used to get. But still, worse than Texas, which Keith misses despite himself because as horrible as his life could get down there, at least it wasn’t so godawful _cold_. Unperturbed by Keith’s current predicament, the night sky is ink-dark with a faint, stretched out veil of clouds. Scattered between them, a few stars manage to sneak past, manage to make themselves seen despite the lights of town. This, too, is better than Chicago, where it was always so bright that the sky looked more brown than black and you couldn’t see any stars at all.

By the time the side-door creaks open, Keith hasn’t started crying. If anything, he’s reined himself in so much that he almost feels like he can return to Allura, Shay, and Regris, and fake like he’s a real boy again. He shoves himself off the wall with a groan and skulks toward the door, intent on sucking it up and pretending to be a functioning human person.

Then, someone calls his name. Asks for him to wait, _please_ , wait.

He stops dead in his tracks, a few inches shy of colliding with Allura.

She holds her arms open as if she’s going to hug him. When he shakes his head and mutters, _“Not right now, Princess, please,”_ she nods and reaches toward his shoulder instead. Another shake of the head and she lifts her hand as if she wants to touch his face. This time, he gives her a nod and she pushes his hair back off his face. Eases a long clump of bangs back behind Keith’s ear and holds her breath until it stays in place.

Resting her palm on his cheek, Allura sighs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Keith lies, even though Allura’s too smart to believe that. But she also deserves so much more than this, so he takes a deep breath. Then, a second. He leans into her touch— “Nothing that anyone can do anything about, Allura. Not anymore. It’s old news.”

There’s a brief flash of _something_ in her eyes. Something eager. Even with only a vague halo of streetlamp helping him see anything, Keith’s gotten to know that glimmer so well in the past fourteen months since they first got paired together in a _“getting to know your fellow freshmen”_ orientation week exercise. It crops up pretty much any time Allura desperately wants to know something. Whether it’s answers that she’s looking for in class, or research she’s digging in for a project, or details of the places that Keith has been in before they found each other — she wants _so badly_ to know so many things.

But for once, she doesn’t push as hard as she could. She doesn’t get any closer to Keith, staying back enough that she won’t see double when she tries to look him in the eye. For a long moment, she gets a pensive look, as if she’s weighing several different options and can’t decide which of them is more or less likely to end in a halfway decent outcome.

Brushing her thumb down his cheek, she says, “Was it something about that news piece you got so enraptured by?”

Keith nods before he can stop himself. Talking about this won’t help. Unloading it all over Allura, when she’s done nothing to deserve that kind of pain? When Keith’s supposed to make her _happy_ and be _good_ to her, and when that’s all he wants for her? He swallows thickly and it feels like he has hot coals stuck in his throat. Like he has more of them rolling around the deepest parts of his lungs. Like they’ll only let up if he says _something_ — but he _can’t_ do that to Allura, not when she’s been so impossibly good to him — she shouldn’t suffer any more than she already has in her life—

“It didn’t happen to you, did it? Did you have a problem with… any of those substances?”

She goes so wide-eyed, giving Keith this _look_ like he actually deserves this gentleness. When he shakes his head, she nudges his hair back again — and she keeps fucking _looking at him_. The earnestness all over her face feels like his arms are breaking out in hives — because God-fucking-dammit, if Keith’s going to be literally allergic to anything, then why wouldn’t it be sweetness like Allura’s trying so hard to show him — and another gulp doesn’t make him feel any more stable. Any more capable of telling her anything.

“Then,” she starts, then takes a slow, deep breath. She peers into his face like she’s trying to read a crystal ball. “Was it with someone you—”

“It’s the way those people _talk_ about them, Princess!” Keith’s voice bursts out of him, sounding strangled and not entirely unlike a sick, yowling cat. “All those fucking _experts_? Or the _cops_? The _politicians_ in there? They were just — How can they sit there in those nice offices with their fancy, expensive degrees and go on like they have the first — How can they _treat_ these people? How can they do anything to _help_ them if they think — They aren’t even talking like they think addicts are _people_! Where do they get off — And the fucking _audacity!_ Can you even _believe_ — Do you think any of them even _know_ what it’s like, or what this _does_ to people, or just—”

He cuts himself off with a horrible, wounded sound. It claws its way up through his throat, won’t let him choke it down. If he slipped up just a hair or two more, he’d probably scream, and then somebody would call the cops, and the last thing that Allura or her parents need to deal with tonight? Is rescuing Keith from the consequences of his own bullshit life-choices.

But even though he’s shaking like a leaf in a tornado, her hand on his face is a warm, stable, solid presence. When she extends the other toward his shoulder, Keith nods that he doesn’t mind. As soon as she rests it there, he curls his own fingers around her wrist, runs his thumb along her smooth skin while his index finger jangles one of her many charm-bracelets. He doesn’t hold on too tightly, lest he do something to hurt Allura. In his mind, though, he’s clinging to her like a life-raft.

Relative to the situation, he might as well be stuck in the path of a hurricane and grabbing a piece of driftwood. But Allura’s here, and Allura’s real, and even if Keith doesn’t deserve this kindness from her, she inexplicably gives a fuck about whether or not he’s okay.

“It’s fucking _garbage_ , Princess,” he chokes out, hating how much his voice sounds like he’s already crying. A deep breath doesn’t steady him. A second one doesn’t make him feel any less like his insides are burning up. But he doesn’t pass out, and his heart’s still beating, and since his voice hasn’t completely fucked off on him yet— “They don’t know what it’s like for the people who _do_ have problems with Vicodin. Or Percocet. Or Oxy, or any of the others. They fuckin’ _act_ like they do, but they don’t _care_ enough to know the truth. Not _really_. All they wanna talk about is their own pain, like that’s the actual issue. Like _they’re_ the ones who’re _really_ being hurt by this! Like _they’re_ the ones dying when _they_ **_aren’t_** the ones who might OD!”

Another miserable sound teeters out of Keith, making him sound like someone’s cut him to the quick. Like he’s been emotionally eviscerated and he’s spewing the results all over everything. A third noise tags along, right on that moan’s heels, stumbling out of his mouth like it’s so drunk, it doesn’t know where home is. Trying to take a deep breath only coaxes a third wail out of hiding. Coughing it up leaves him feeling emptied, like he’s vomited his lungs and his heart and everything, down to his bone marrow. Like his soul has a physical form and he managed to evict it from his body, and Allura’s comforting a husk without realizing because she’s _like that_. Because she wants so badly to help, to hope, even in situations where she maybe can’t.

Yet, she closes in on him and nudges her forehead into Keith’s as if she might have any idea what to do for Keith that could possibly fix him.

“This is so _stupid_ , Allura. What are we… I don’t even…”

Keith chokes out a sound that he hates. Because it’s small. And it quivers in a way that he still remembers too well from when he did it in Chicago. And Keith never helped Shiro by getting choked up over the new songs that he asked for input on, by listening to him play and envying the way that he caressed the neck of his guitar. Hating the strings because they got to feel Shiro’s long, dexterous fingers touching them with the kind of care and love that he was never going to feel for Keith because why would he have. Why would he ever have held Keith with that kind of delicate strength. Even without the promise that Keith broke into a million pieces by falling so hard for Shiro, Shiro had to have known, on some level, how much better he deserved.

Maybe he was in love with a monster. Maybe was an addict. Maybe he almost died, then laughed about it in a way that made Keith’s blood freeze up in his veins. Made him feel like his heart had stopped and he’d never feel cheerful again. Because Shiro’s beautiful face twisted up into such a gaunt, grim, ghoulish parody of itself, desperate for something that Keith couldn’t identify, much less give to Shiro, and he laughed like he had no idea how to stop. Like there was anything even remotely funny about how he had _only_ ** _almost_** _died_ , thanks to his Cuervo and artificial cherry-flavored liquid hydrocodone cocktails — but even so, Shiro deserved so much better. If he hadn’t in the first place, then he did by the time Keith abandoned Chicago to come out here.

Allura’s in the same boat now, whether she admits this fact or not. She can butt her forehead into Keith’s as many times as she wants, but she can probably never fix what’s broken about him — and that shouldn’t be her responsibility, either. Expecting her to fix him is so fucking selfish, anyone would rightfully push Keith in front of a bus for thinking about that possibility enough to dismiss it.

Still, as she insists on holding him, Keith can’t help whispering, “Nobody gets any help outta treating addicts like that, Princess… They’ve already got it hard enough. It’s an uphill battle, and they’re usually fighting it alone, and nobody _ever_ wants to help them…”

 _Well, no, that’s not_ ** _exactly_** _true. What about Ryou? What about Aunt Satomi? They wanted to help Shiro… They wanted him to get better —_ Keith’s brain decides to remind him. He squeezes her wrist as if it might steady him a bit more — keep him slightly better-grounded in the reality of anything that could come up yet tonight — and God, he needs that illusion of stability when his mind tacks on, _And if what Shiro wrote you about Maurice is true? Then he wanted Shiro to get help. That’s why he went away. It was about_ ** _him_** _, not you, and why aren’t you happier for him, even having the chance to get help—_

“Or if people _do_ want to help addicts,” Keith cuts in before his mind can go too much further down that rabbit-hole. He doesn’t need that. Not tonight. Not after _everything else_ that Maurice ever put Shiro through. Rubbing his thumb along Allura’s bracelet, he sighs. “When people _do_ want to help addicts, so many of them don’t know what to do. Or they have ideas, but there’s only so much that they _can_ do. Or their hands are tied by _something_ —and where does that leave any of the _addicts_?”

“I don’t know, _unelinde_. Not from any firsthand experience.” Brushing her long, thin fingers through his hair, Allura slips in that Altean-language endearment and it sounds almost like a smile. “But I would assume that they do not find themselves in good places?”

Keith shakes his head, which mostly ends up with him nuzzling at Allura’s palm. “Not even a _little_. Because people _listen_ to sober family members who’ve gotten stuck in this mess. They listen to parents whose kids have had problems. You take brothers who watched their siblings stagger down that kind of road, and people eat their stories up. They’ll listen to aunts and uncles, cousins who haven’t seen their addict family members in fucking _months_ , friends, exes, casual fuck-buddies—”

He inhales sharply, and he hates the cracking sound of his voice. He hates how the sob keeps teasing him and won’t come out already. Why does it get off so much on dragging this out and tormenting Keith?

“But then no one wants to hear _fucking anything_ from the addicts themselves.” Keith rests his face even more in Allura’s hand. Tries to hide in her palm as much as he can (which isn’t much, but at least the touch from her feels nice, Keith guesses). “Maybe if they’re some rich and famous asshole like Robert Downey Jr., okay. Maybe if they get well and stay well without any problems, so they can go around to schools and preach at kids about how drugs are bad forever and they used to be weak enough for drugs, but now they’re not? But _fuck_ , though? God help them if they need anything more than the bare minimum, I mean?”

She squeezes his cheek. His eyes sting harder than ever. Clenching them shut doesn’t make tears spill over, though.

With a shuddering breath, Keith allows himself to wilt. “As soon as things get _difficult_ , Allura? As soon as someone is like, ‘I have these problems because I’m an addict, and I have to do _this_ thing so I can stay clean’?”

He means to finish that thought on his own.

He means to say something, because he started this and so he needs to finish it.

He means to say _anything_ , because trailing off is such a cop-out, and Keith should do better because Shiro believed in what he’s capable of.

But instead, his voice dries up until it feels like he never had one. His throat withers and leaves Keith feeling like it’s a miracle that he’s even breathing. Never mind trying to get the words out like he has an iota of respect for Allura or half-an-iota of self-discipline. Right now, Keith’s pressing his luck with the fact that he hasn’t swooned and fainted on Allura due to lack of oxygen. Giving her an actual complete thought, the way she’d get out of the Keith he should be? Feels like it could kill Keith.

He stays quiet long enough that Allura decides to chime in, guessing, “People disappear? …Leave them alone? …Give up on them?”

Those words crash into Keith. Chills course over him, then something hot flares up in his chest.

He gasps, and his eyes burn. Finally, they water. Make good on an entire night’s worth of threats and tear up already.

They _shouldn’t_. Keith’s got no right to cry. Not after everything he’s done.

Not when he did exactly all three of those things to Shiro.

Before he can stop himself, though, Keith throws his arms around Allura’s shoulders. As he buries his face in the curve of her neck, she hugs him back, gently embracing him around the waist. The scent of her perfume comes so strong, it’s almost as if she just applied it — but it doesn’t stop Keith from crying. It doesn’t give him the strength to pull back, or to rein himself in, or to reclaim any semblance of self-control.

Impossibly good to him as ever — impossibly patient when he does not deserve it — Allura holds Keith while he breaks down all over her shoulder. She rubs his back, whispering that he’s safe and that everything will be alright. She makes everything sound so easy. Squeezing him as if he actually matters, as if she wouldn’t be wasting time if she tried to protect him, Allura almost makes Keith believe that with her. Even considering the cold, Keith could stay here all night, hugging Allura and letting himself feel like he matters, except—

“What in the world has so upset you, darling?”

“Oh, _please_. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you have _no idea_ why I’m feeling _mad_?”

Lifting his head off of Allura’s shoulder, Keith trembles. He blinks uncomprehendingly at the damp stains he left behind on her blouse, then furrows his brow down the alleyway. A pair of tall, thin figures stand at the other end, which Keith wants to say comes out on Cherry Street? Maybe Spring Street? Either way, he can’t tell much about them, based on their silhouettes, certainly not from this distance — but they won’t get much privacy if they raise their voices any further.

The one on Keith’s left shakes out a Rapunzel-looking ponytail. Or anyway, it’s gotta be at least waist-length. “ _Obviously_ , I have no such ideas about why you are so upset, darling. Otherwise, I would not be asking you to clarify—”

“You accused me of cheating on you!”

“I did not _say_ that I thought you were being unfaithful—”

“Maybe not _outright_ , no.” The figure on Keith’s right slouches at the hips, shaking a much shorter ponytail. “But how else am I supposed to interpret you deciding that there was some secret code involving another man? When I told you things like, ‘On Tuesday nights, I go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings from seven to nine, at the community’—”

Left-Hand Figure laughs like a gunshot. “Well, how was I meant to interpret _that_?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about _literally_? Y’know, as a statement that I go to AA meetings?”

“Darling, _please_. How could you expect me to take such a suggestion seriously—”

“Because I’m your _boyfriend_! Because I trust _you_ about _your_ problems, so why can’t you—”

“But you hardly _need_ to subject yourself to those farcical exercises in self-deprecation—”

“They _help_ me! Mitch and Robin help me. David and Miranda help me.” Despite sighing so heavily that Keith feels secondhand pain, Right-Hand Figure squares up their shoulders. “Staying sober is _important_ to me, and it’s hard enough _without_ getting baselessly accused of things! Especially not because my _boyfriend_ — who I love, respect, and _trust_ — decided that my _sobriety support group_ is an elaborate lie that I made up to mask my alleged infidelity!”

Squeezing Allura’s shoulders, Keith whispers, “I think that we should go.”

As Allura nods in agreement, Keith can’t shake the feeling like he’s got a monster clawing up the pit of his stomach. There’s something so familiar about the right-hand guy’s voice — but in fairness, Keith would hear Shiro in anything, right now. Political speeches, shitty hot nonsense slam poetry, Judas Priest records… Keith’s hypersensitive. He has Shiro on the brain. He’s in the sort of mood where he can turn any and all things into Shiro, even though Shiro’s nowhere to be found because why would he be.

Based on the sound of the argument — _“What I fail to understand, darling? Is why you insist on claiming that you_ ** _need_** _to stay sober. You don’t drink like my_ ** _Mother_** _, so in what way, exactly, do you have a_ ** _problem_** _”_ — Keith and Allura clear out not a moment too soon.


	5. Thursday, March 19th, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline note: this chapter takes place about seven months before the slip-up that Shiro has in “[nothing to keep me from the storm (today could be your day)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338717).” This scene is set during the period of time that fic references, where Shiro is taking antidepressants that aren’t working out for him (which he is eventually going to stop taking without telling Ulaz, which is a monumentally bad idea and _please, for the love of whatever you believe in, **do not stop taking your IRL meds without talking to a professional**_ ).
> 
> Content warning note: as mentioned, Shiro is taking antidepressants (specifically, Zoloft) and they are not working out for him. So, he spends this chapter exhausted, worn down, and running on fumes.

Fumbling out of the Java Hut men’s room, Shiro can’t get back to his and Lance’s table fast enough. He spent too long in there, he must have done. Which would be problematic any day, but considering that Shiro had a meeting with his dietician today? Given that he backslid almost three weeks ago, on his and Ryou’s birthday, yielding to the temptation that wouldn’t quit and gagging himself with a toothbrush until he felt _certain_ that he’d expelled every single molecule of chocolate cake? Any of Shiro’s friends would be well within their rights to get concerned about him. Part of Shiro twists in anticipation, hoping that Lance calls him out.

Instead, Shiro slumps back into his seat with an apology for taking so long, and Lance barely even nods to acknowledge him. He’s grinning eagerly, his blue eyes wide and bright in the way they get when Lance has a bad idea. Prodding him about it makes Lance point at a nearby table, where a pretty, brown-skinned girl with silvery hair is deep in conversation with a pale guy. Or Shiro assumes he’s pale, based on how his hands look around his cup of coffee. Between the mess of black hair flopping every which way, Shiro can barely make out a nose and jawline. That red sweatshirt hood is practically falling down the guy’s head, but it’s still hiked up enough to keep Shiro from discerning much of anything about his face.

Hell, they may not even be a guy. Shiro’s guessing about that point, though Lance seems convinced.

“You’ve been missing out on a great episode of _Días de Nuestros Vidas en Kaltenecker_ ,” he whispers. “So, the pretty princess-looking girl over there? She and her weirdo boyfriend have been living together for a year or something. But I guess that the messy boyfriend feels like he’s burdening her? She’s paying all the rent or something, maybe, they’ve been kinda sorta fuzzy on the details? Anyway, she’s really getting worried about him—”

“ _Lance_. Seriously?” By way of emphasizing his point, Shiro moves to the chair that blocks Lance’s ability to spy on the other patrons. Sliding his journal across the table — taking care not to knock over his own coffee or Lance’s — Shiro clarifies, “They aren’t characters in one of your _novelas_. They’re real people and you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on them like that.”

Crumpling up his face, Lance whines. “But it got really _boring_ , sitting here without you.”

“You have plenty of things that you could’ve been doing.”

Affectionately arching an eyebrow, Shiro taps on the textbook sitting open in front of Lance — which makes him groan like he’s trying to get out of doing the dishes. He rolls his eyes, gives Shiro a pout like, _“Why are you doing this to me?”_ and, when that doesn’t work, Lance flops onto his book, pillowing his head on his forearms.

“It’s _spring break_ , though, _bonito_ ,” he points out as though this can magically erase the fact that he has homework to do. “‘s bad enough that Hunk went up to Maine with that graduate student chick he’s dating and left us here. Why do I have to do work during a _break_?”

“Because your professors assigned it and, if you don’t do the work, then you definitely won’t like the consequences.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re such a freaking genius — which, just so you know, you completely _are_?” Lance’s smirk is audible in his tone, and playfully, he bats his foot into Shiro’s ankle. “Then talk sexy to me about literally anything else why don’t you.”

With a soft sigh, Shiro wilts onto his elbows and kneads at his temple. “Can I talk to you about literally anything else in _non_ -sexy ways?”

“ _Bonito_ , come fucking _on_!” Lance kicks Shiro’s leg again, not hard enough to hurt but going for more of an impact. “You and Prince Loser are taking a break! You can talk sexy to other guys.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call him that, Sharpshooter.”

“Well, I really wish that his parents had given him the first name _‘Prince’_ as a tribute to The Artist Formerly Known As. Y’know, instead of because they’re a pair of power-hungry freakazoids who probably put whisky in his baby bottle so he’d pass out instead of crying.”

“They didn’t, but that’s none of our business unless Lotor decides to make it so.”

Granted, Shiro wouldn’t put that past Dean Zarkon and Honerva. Strictly speaking, his opinion doesn’t count for much because he hasn’t met them in person yet. Based on everything that he’s heard from Lotor, Acxa, Ezor, and Zethrid, though? Shiro could very easily be convinced that his boyfriend’s parents are capable of magically mind-controlling unsuspecting victims, or turning them into horrifying cyborg death-monsters.

Either way, Shiro sighs again and lets his shoulders droop. Holding them up is wearing him out for no good reason — or anyway, not for a reason that Shiro can discern. Not even on the other side of his session with Ulaz, where they specifically made time to discuss how _worn down_ Shiro feels today.

Part of how this whole therapy thing allegedly works? Means that Shiro should feel _better_. He should better understand what’s going on inside of him, and pick it apart in ways that make him _feel_ ** _better_**. For example: while Lance insists that _“Prince Loser”_ is the single most befitting nickname and Lotor has more than earned it by sheer virtue of being Shiro’s boyfriend and completely, utterly failing to appreciate how lucky he is (in Lance’s less-than-humble opinion that is in absolutely every imaginable way definitely biased toward his friend), Shiro should have some idea for why the strongest feeling he’s having is the pressing awareness that he doesn’t feel much of anything. He should be able to do more than summon a chorus of exasperated sighs.

Unfortunately, even that reaction feels like it’s draining Shiro faster than any vampire ever could.

Granted, this is probably somewhat on Shiro, since he’s the one who kept getting distracted by everything under the sun. Holding to a pattern he’s been on lately, he dragged Ulaz down a seemingly infinite number of different, only tangentially-related rabbit-holes, which meant that most of the topics that he brought up did not get discussed to his satisfaction or to Ulaz’s. Moreover, jumping all around between Lotor, Lance, Ryou, how the earlier session went with Sophie, Chicago, Lotor, Keith, Hunk, Lotor, Pidge, Ryou, and Lotor? That’s left Shiro reeling.

Which _should_ be deeply annoying — except, thinking about it now, all Shiro feels is… kinda empty. Like he knows where his feelings belong and he _knows_ what they should be, but he doesn’t have the energy to make himself feel them.

Grumbling softly, Lance concedes that he and Shiro might have reached their usual impasse about Lotor. The one where, even though Lance and Shiro love, trust, and respect each other, they have certain irreconcilable differences of opinion concerning Shiro’s boyfriend. Since neither of them wants to change teams on the issue, they must resign themselves to the more mature but infinitely less satisfying option of, _“Let’s agree to disagree.”_

“So, instead of rehashing my completely correct case about why Lotor is a jackass who doesn’t deserve you and never did—”

“Because that’s my choice, not yours, and _‘taking a break’_ does not mean we’re breaking up—”

“Riddle me this instead.” Lance smiles hopefully. “How’d it go with Sophie today?”

Judging by the way Lance slouches and his eyes dull over, the right answer to that question is not shrugging limply, wilting even closer to the table, and making a throaty, discontented noise that refuses to commit to any one direction above all others.

“Dude, this isn’t a question where you can be the International House of Waffling with me—”

“I’m not _trying_ to jerk you around, okay? I just…” Taking a deep breath, Shiro flips his long, bleached white fringe back off his face. Annoyingly stubborn as always, it unfurls again and covers up his eye until Lance reaches over to tuck it behind his ear. “Look, I’m sorry, I just… Don’t really know what to tell you.”

Which is ridiculous as all get-out, since it hasn’t even been five full hours since Shiro left Sophie’s office. He got out of there shortly after eleven-thirty… He worked a short shift at the bookstore, between lunch and heading over to Ulaz’s office… Even if he hadn’t, trouble has a knack for finding Shiro. Based on precedent, he should be overflowing with things that he wants to talk about. Even complaining about his weight going up as if gaining it back hasn’t been a central piece of his recovery plan since the beginning? That would be infinitely preferable to whatever Shiro thinks he’s doing today. God, he should be feeling so many things with such intensity that he can’t keep them all contained.

Instead, his heart trembles and flutters rather than beating. When he focuses on it too hard, it squirms around his chest as if it’s shy and wants to hide itself away behind one of his lungs. Worst of all, Shiro can’t think of anything to say. Not until Lance brushes their ankles against each other and prods Shiro with a handful of remedial-level questions about how the weigh-in went this, and what did Sophie say about his food journal that, and did she ream him about how he made himself throw up or did she understand, the way that Lance bet Shiro she would.

The last of them makes Shiro reach for his wallet and hand Lance a twenty-dollar bill.

“So, she totally understood about that, right?” Puckering his lips and furrowing his brow, Lance does not seem particularly reassured by the fact that Shiro nods for him. “I mean, I don’t wanna be the, ‘I told you so’ guy when you’re looking like Matt and Pidge decided to take away your Rover-sitting privileges? But…” Another knock of ankle against ankle. “You know that I was mostly kidding about the bet, right? Like, you don’t actually have to give me the money?”

“Then consider it my, ‘Being difficult about answering simple questions’ tax or something.” With a soft huff, Shiro does what Lance did earlier: he flops onto the table and uses his forearms as a pillow. “I mean, I’d be annoyed with myself if I were in your seat, right now.”

Technically, Shiro’s getting on his own nerves without him needing to be in Lance’s seat, but that’s beside the point.

Whining softly, Lance pokes at Shiro’s forehead like he’s trying to find the button that turns Shiro on in a very literal, irritatingly non-sexual way. Unfortunately, that task proves far more difficult than finding one of Shiro’s erotic on-switches. If not for the fact that they’re in public, then Shiro being on a temporary break with Lotor means that he and Lance could make out with each other like they’ve done before.

If they did make out, then Lance would know the right way to tug on Shiro’s hair to get him going, and the right way to scratch up Shiro’s back when he wants Shiro to kiss him harder or more roughly, and the right way to shift his legs so they can flip over and Lance can straddle Shiro’s hips instead of the other way around.

All of which is great in theory, but at the same time? If Lance wanted any of that right now, then Shiro doesn’t know that he could deliver. If they headed home right now, went to Shiro’s room, and put on the mp3 player with his make-out playlist, he might end up snuggling Lance and taking a nap instead of kissing him.

None of which much addresses the current problem where sitting up like an adult sounds too difficult and Shiro doesn’t _want_ to do it.

“ _Bonito_ , listen to me.” Sighing fondly, Lance scoots his chair back so he can get down on the table too, closer to Shiro’s current level. “I am totally fine with taking twenty bucks from you, if you _want_ to give me twenty bucks. But you don’t _need_ to do anything like that for me and way, way, _way_ more importantly?”

He tilts his head so that he gets closer to making eye-contact. “Are you okay?”

Shiro closes his eyes so he can think a little better — but all he comes up with at first? Is yet another shrug.

“I don’t know if I’m okay? But I also don’t think I’m _not_ -okay?” Swallowing thickly, Shiro nuzzles at his arms in a half-baked attempt at getting more comfortable. “Being _not_ -okay would be a lot better than whatever this is, I swear to God.”

“Hey. You remember what Ulaz said?” A heavy, unimpressed silence makes Lance hum and purse his lips. “Okay, fine, you’ve got me there: Ulaz has said a lot of things to both of us. But I specifically mean the thing about being allowed to feel whatever you do? And how all your feelings are fine and none of them are wrong?”

“I remember he said it. But my problem is that it’s not exactly _helpful_ , at the moment.” As Lance brushes his white fringe off his face again, Shiro chokes down another sigh, lest he start feeling more like a human tea-kettle than he already does. “Like, I’ve worked hard, but I clearly still have an eating disorder. So, I should feel _something_ about meeting my goal weight, right—”

“Wait, seriously? Did you really? Sophie’s scale said you hit one-ninety-five?” When Shiro nods, Lance beams at him like a human ray of sunshine and squeals, “Holy crow, _bonito_ , I’m so proud of you! That’s _amazing_ , okay? Did you tell your brother yet?”

“Yeah, I mean, Ryou and I had lunch together afterward and everything, so it was pretty easy—”

“No, no, no! None of that down-talking how hard it can be for you to talk about this shit—”

“But it _was_ easy to talk about today, though.” Shiro wishes he felt up to lifting his head. In lieu of that, he looks Lance in the eye. “The fact that it was easy? Feels like part of the problem?”

Lance pouts as if he has two equally powerful, diametrically opposed impulses duking it out inside of him.

Before Shiro needs to explain himself, though, Lance decides, “Fair enough. Like, okay, I really want you to get to a point where it’s _actually_ , for realskis, five-thousand percent _genuinely_ easier for you to talk about this stuff with people? Buuuut since you aren’t even three weeks out from slipping up like you did? And since that slip-up happened in the first place because you felt like you _couldn’t_ talk to anybody about all of those messy feelings coming back? And since you always say that it’s so much easier to put your feelings in a song than talk about them?”

“It’s less that the desire to purge came back? It’s more that it was stronger and harder to resist than usual, and eventually, I caved. As opposed to admitting what was going on and talking about it with someone.” Still, Shiro idly bats his foot at Lance’s shin. Turnabout, in a game footsie, is perpetually fair play. “Otherwise? Dead on, Sharpshooter. Perfect score on guessing what I’m thinking about this whole mess of a situation.”

For now, Shiro leaves out the part of the story where a not-insignificant contributing factor in his latest backslide was the fact that Lotor had spent two-and-a-half months pointedly refusing to understand the meaning of, _“Yes, I have personal, first-hand knowledge about BDSM. No, I_ ** _do not_** _want to use it in bed. I don’t want to talk about it. Please, can’t we just drop the subject and cuddle, or make-out, or have vanilla sex that doesn’t involve restraints, impact-play, domination and submission, collars, or anything else that you might be thinking of trying? I know you really want this and respect your wishes, but doing BDSM wouldn’t be good for me, emotionally. I’m sorry. I love you.”_

At the moment, bringing that up would get on Lance’s last bi nerve, and possibly make him antsy, which in turn could put him in the mood to argue about whether or not Shiro should work things out with Lotor, even though both of them want that. Even though they need some space from each other, but getting back together has always been part of their plan. Even though Shiro loves Lotor and has only kissed Lance since the break started. So much they could get into…

All up, Shiro would prefer not to.

So, before Lance can get it into his head that he needs to interject, Shiro sighs. “I feel like a zombie. And I don’t know  _why_? But it _sucks_.”

“I’m sorry, _bonito_.” Lance huffs in the way that he always does when he doesn’t know how to help the people he cares about. Worse, it also accompanies the moments when he suspects that there’s nothing in his power to be done. “But you know I’m here for you, right? And you’re one of the best friends that I’ve ever had, okay? And, y’know, no big deal, but? Just so you know: I love you.”

“I do, Sharpshooter. But thanks for reminding me. And I love you, too.” Quirking his shoulders, Shiro adds, “I just wish it were easier to be a _person_ , y’know? ‘Cause right about now, I do not feel like one.”

Pushing himself into sitting up, Lance shoves out a heavier sigh than any of the ones that Shiro’s coughed up so far today. Guilt twists up in the pit of Shiro’s stomach from hearing that sound — God, his friends deserve so much better out of him than this — and preferable though that is to feeling nothing? It still makes Shiro feel so sick, he almost bolts for the restroom. If that didn’t sound like an awful lot of potentially unnecessary effort, Shiro would go through with it.

Then, out of nowhere, Lance perks up. Both eyebrows try to leap off of his forehead. He holds his breath as if he could wreak a curse on himself and Shiro both, simply by breathing in the wrong way. He’s waiting for _something_ — and then a familiar, melancholy saxophone line starts playing on the cafe’s speakers.

Soon enough, George Michael’s smooth tenor confesses to how unsure he feels, leading some beloved to the dance-floor. As Lance hums along, a grin erupts on his face. Which is completely inappropriate for “Careless Whisper” — but it’s fitting for Lance, himself. Because he knows how much Shiro loves this song. Because on some level, he’s probably hoping that this might rouse Shiro out of whatever funk this is. Might help him get back into whatever groove he usually has, instead of wallowing like he’s doing.

The hope on Lance’s face is the only thing that gets Shiro to sing along with the chorus.

Even though he knows the words better than he knows himself — _“I’m never gonna dance again. Guilty feet have got no rhythm”_ — even though he never passes up the chance to belt this number and it never fails to make him feel alive — _“Though it’s easy to pretend: I know you’re not a fool”_ — and even though he almost always feels these lyrics so earnestly, so ardently, so deeply in his very soul — _“I should’ve known better than to cheat a friend and waste a chance that I’d been given”_ — Shiro can barely lift his head off of his arms. Never mind showing the proper love and respect to his single favorite song in the entire universe.

Something in his chest feels like it wants to stir. Something _wants_ to catch fire, or dig in its emotional claws, or hiss and spit and gnash its fangs at Shiro until it breaks down whatever wall his mind is throwing up and makes him _feel something_ , maybe even cry.

Yet, as he croons the last line of the chorus — _“So, I’m never gonna dance again, the way I danced with you”_ — Shiro flops back onto the table. Sitting up like an adult is making him wish that he could get away with crawling into bed right now.

Worse, the only _real_ feeling he has is the yawning emptiness around his heart, where he knows that his emotions are supposed to be.

Although Shiro doesn’t say as much, Lance gulps and nods as if he understands. As if he gets that Shiro tried his best but doesn’t have much spark left in him for today, if any. As if he realizes exactly how much it means that Shiro is listening to “Careless Whisper” and feeling almost nothing. Strictly speaking, Lance would be close to perfectly accurate about that. Despite not knowing everything about Shiro’s history with his favorite song, Lance knows about sixty percent of what “Careless Whisper” means to Shiro, which is more than anybody else but Ryou knows. The parts Lance doesn’t know, Shiro doesn’t want to talk about, point-blank, because they involve Keith, Maurice, or sometimes both.

For want of something to do with his hands — for want of _some_ way to feel useful and helpful — Lance brushes his long, skinny fingers down the side of Shiro’s face. Combs them through Shiro’s white fringe. As much as he can ever manage, Shiro lets himself relax. Lets himself close his eyes, keeps his breaths deep and slow, and tries to focus only on Lance’s hand caressing his face and the meditative _in… out, in… and out, iiiiiin… and out_ motions that he’s going through. Today might have been a miserable waste of energy, but tomorrow could be better, if Shiro stops being so _negative_ and lets reality have that kind of chance—

Then, Shiro’s phone buzzes in his hip pocket. The _ding!_ sound-effect chimes and God, Shiro hopes that it’s an email. If it’s a text, then he hopes that it’s Ryou checking in on how therapy went, or Hunk taking a break from his adventure with Shay to ask how things are back home, or Pidge complaining about how she still isn’t eighteen for another couple weeks and hates feeling so stymied by her age.

Instead, a text from Lotor stares up at him: _“I’m sorry. Even if you are not yet ready to forgive me, please come? I’m alone. I need you.”_

Sighing, Shiro tries to emulate Oscar Wilde in his reply because Lotor will appreciate that, both the invocation of his patron saint (the one he chose for himself, not the one his parents named him after) and in the appeal to his penchant for dramatics: _“My own dearest boy, I will come to you. Always, and with devotion. No matter what happens, I have no words for how much I love you. Ever yours.”_

As Shiro packs up his journal and wrestles into his hoodie, Lance objects to him sulking off on his own. Not a bad reason to protest, really. Nor is it entirely baseless when Shiro gets involved. But thankfully, Lance shuts up when Shiro gives him a long, limp, silent look.

“I think Lotor’s in trouble and trying not to hurt himself,” he explains, gently and quietly, but with no room for Lance to argue that Shiro shouldn’t go. “I’ll keep you posted about dinner. Unless something comes up, we’ll get shawarma together, like we agreed, I promise. But… I have to be there for him, Lance. I can’t let him do that to himself.”

Even though Lance pulls a sour face that screams how much he doesn’t like this plan, he nods. “But look out for yourself too, okay, _bonito_? ‘Cause I’m gonna be _pissed_ if you literally die from caring too much about your stupid boyfriend.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: Why is “[Careless Whisper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izGwDsrQ1eQ)” Shiro’s favorite song?
> 
> A: Because I felt like it. I mean, I could make up an answer about thematic appropriateness or whatever, but it would be complete bullshit, because the real explanation is that I project very heavily onto Shiro, and my headcanon Shiro wound up being a George Michael fanboy. This reality’s Shiro is more of one than pretty much all of my other Shiros, but still.
> 
> Also, Shiro’s text to Lotor does paraphrase some of Oscar Wilde’s love-letters to Bosie Douglas, because this reality’s Lotor is an Oscar Wilde fanboy in the same way that Shiro stans George Michael, and because I thought that it would be fun to write. Which it was.


	6. Friday/Saturday, October 23rd-24th, 2015

An unforeseen benefit of finally winning Kolivan over and getting his signature on the change of advisor form: aside from Antok, the rest of the history department seems to collectively decide they don’t want to fuck with Keith Sarkance Kogane. After all, popular wisdom holds that anyone with enough dogged tenacity to outlast Kolivan will never yield and never quit, once he sets his mind to something.

Even Prorok gets the message that Keith didn’t intend to screw the fuck around when he first accepted Kaltenecker U’s financial aid package. Once Kolivan became Keith’s advisor, Prorok saw that Keith didn’t fight his way into securing the grants that he has just so he could waste his time and everyone else’s by playing around until he gets a shiny piece of parchment that says he has a Bachelor of the Arts with a major in history. Or anyway, this is what Keith chooses to see in how candid and forthcoming Prorok’s been with him so far, this semester.

Officially, Kolivan frowns upon Keith talking shit about other professors, but even he admits that Prorok normally has no such misgivings. Under most typical circumstances, Prorok doesn’t mind bad-mouthing students behind their backs and using whatever doublespeak most benefits him at any given moment. Yet, according to Kolivan, Prorok hasn’t gossiped about Keith with anybody since he filed the change of advisor form, back in February. He’s even shut down a round of back-fence blathering between Raht and Vreck, just because they happened to be arguing about whether or not Keith listens to literally anyone but Kolivan.

As far as his course on military dictatorships goes? Prorok has questioned Keith, disputed his interpretations of the reading, challenged him (sometimes deservedly; other times, much less so), and openly argued with him in class — but based on their handful of one-on-one meetings? Considering the notes that he’s scrawled on Keith’s assignments and how they stack up next to everything else he’s said? At least Prorok respects Keith enough to say that shit to his face, now.

An unfortunate downside to becoming Kolivan’s advisee, though: social obligations came loaded in the fine print like the pistol someone might keep in their nightstand for self-protection’s sake.

Sure, Kolivan understands that Keith has very little patience for things like department parties, and he gets that Keith can be abrasive in ways that most people don’t enjoy dealing with. But he insists that these experiences will be worthwhile, no matter how much Keith dislikes them. Better yet, playing nicely and behaving himself for the duration tends to result in Kolivan inviting Keith up to his office — and on two occasions, so far, to his and Antok’s home — for a round of reassurance that he did very well, a reminder that Kolivan doesn’t much enjoy these functions either, and sometimes, affection from Rufus, Kolivan and Antok’s shelter-rescue Sheltie mutt.

This was never an issue with Thace. Sure, he’s respected enough and if nothing else, he enjoys bringing his husband to events where Dean Zarkon might show up because Zarkon hates being reminded that some of his fellow Galra are LGBTQ. People know who Thace is, and whenever he gets the leave of absence that he needs to finish his second book, Keith bets it will be great.

But Thace doesn’t have the same prestige as Kolivan does yet. As Thace’s advisee, Keith was the same unnotable, bedraggled ragamuffin that he’s always been, but in an academic setting. No one wanted to know who he was because there was no reason to think anything about Keith would ever be exceptional. He could’ve gone on with Thace, taken all of his academic advice without question, probably stayed well below the radar, and never gotten asked to show his face at anything special. In so many ways, it would’ve been less stressful, but it wouldn’t have been the educational experience that Keith _wanted_. It wouldn’t have made the most out of what he can do and it would’ve led to him being stifled, if not utterly snuffed out — and that’s not what Shiro wanted for Keith. Shiro didn’t give up practically everything he had to help Keith get here just so Keith could settle for some mundane, uninspired, no-achieving, middle of the road, total bullshit “safe” option that wouldn’t do right by the potential that he thought Keith had.

Which is exactly the rub, for Keith. Putting up with these exercises is worth it, if it means that he gets to work with Kolivan because working with Kolivan means that Keith can truly make the most of his opportunities. Keith _needs_ to squeeze every ounce of potential out of the chance that he has at Kaltenecker, no matter what it takes and no matter how much it wears him down, because he can’t honor Shiro’s last request — he can’t keep his tacit promise to live and be happy — by giving up and settling for second-best.

Still, that knowledge doesn’t mean Keith enjoys Kolivan’s _strong suggestions_ that he put in an appearance at this party or that reception after such-and-such reading and talk by the one visiting scholar who’s soon coming out with this cool new book or other. Likewise, knowing that Kolivan has reasons for asking Keith to show up at these events? Fails to soothe Keith’s nerves while he’s in the middle of plastering on his old customer service smile and pretending that small talk doesn’t make him want to stab himself in the eye with a rusty, tetanus-infested fork.

At least the queer history conference goes down easier than any of the parties Kolivan could _strongly suggest_ Keith appear at for a while.

Maybe the first day isn’t how Keith _intended_ to spend his and Allura’s birthday. The twenty-third falls on a Friday, this year, and they could’ve blown off everything else — could’ve forsaken all attempts at pretending to be adults — and gone to ring in twenty-two by taking one of her Father’s sports-cars out for an incredibly ill-advised joyride, violating every posted speed limit because fuck good sense and fuck acting their age. They could’ve been completely irresponsible and probably set themselves up for a massive chewing-out from Allura’s parents, but goddamn, it would’ve been so much fun to get there.

Instead, Keith spends the day bopping around between different lecture halls or open rooms on campus, listening to the presentations on the panels, chiming in during the Q&A sessions, and feeling his blood rush through him as much as it would’ve done for trying to outrace the cops in Alfor’s Benz (or his _Jag_ , if he would ever let anybody drive it). Thank God Allura insisted on getting Keith a stack of new five-subject notebooks back in September, because he takes so many notes just from the 9:30AM panel on the different definitions of _“agency”_ and _“resistance”_ that his hand starts cramping.

One of Friday’s graduate student panels prove even more interesting, not least because Keith personally knows two of the four people who were sitting on it. Regris won’t be going to Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania, and Ukraine until summer break and next autumn. So, here he is, presenting a paper about the conflicted relationships that LGBTQ Galra-Americans have with resistance and liberation movements. He’s engaging, when he speaks. Even talking to a classroom full of people and desks, Regris has a way of making you feel like he’s speaking to you specifically. It’s magnetic, and enthralling, and Keith surprises himself when he comes up with any questions for Regris, because his voice could lull anybody off until they’re agreeing to trade him everything they have for five allegedly magic beans.

That being said, Shay’s paper on queer, anti-capitalist efforts among Balmeran-Americans is probably Keith’s favorite. On one hand, she focuses on the way that members of her community can use art and music as means of organizing and preserving their diasporic culture, while also addressing the cautionary note that some activities have more sociopolitical efficacy than others (as much as she can in fifteen minutes). More than that, though, she makes an active effort to use more accessible language, rather than using activist buzzwords and academic Newspeak jargon to bury the fact that she had no actual point and didn’t know what she’s talking about.

When Thace questions her on the more casual tone of her presentation — pointing out that it might not help punk rock music be taken more seriously by academics who might be biased against it already — she shrugs her broad shoulders, gives him an easy smile, and tells him, _“The people we write about should be able to read our work and understand it, sir.”_

The other two presenters, Keith’s seen around the history department, which probably means that he _should_ recognize them. It’s probably some kind of rude that Keith can’t put his finger on anything else about them. Regardless, if not for the list of panels that Kolivan made sure he got four separate copies of? Keith would not remember Remdax’s name _or_ Amue’s. Maybe he’s the worst for that — maybe it’s unprofessional and he needs to learn better if he’s going to get anywhere in life, once he has his degree — but it took him six weeks to learn Allura’s name and he’s actually invested in her. So, Remdax and Amue probably won’t stick in Keith’s mind very well, outside of their papers.

Not that either of their papers was _bad_. Remdax got into the ways that queer Olkari-Americans use poetry to craft sociopolitical commentary and inspire practical action. Amue, meanwhile, tried to address the way that queer Altean-American artists address their status as a diasporic people _and_ people with a history of imperialism. Both of them had some good ideas, and Keith didn’t _dis_ like either presentation. When he got the chance to ask them questions during the Q&A portion, he made sure to take a piece of Kolivan’s advice by _telling them outright_ that he liked their papers, and that he wanted to see where they went from here and how they developed the ideas in the future.

Still, their papers definitely had more of a “work in progress” feeling to them than Keith got off of Shay and Regris. That’s probably some kind of weird, considering that Remdax and Amue have been at Kaltenecker U for longer than Shay and Regris, but the world’s probably had stranger things happen than the more experienced graduate students getting shown up by two people who are technically their juniors.

After all, Keith actually made it to twenty-two years old instead of dying in a ditch somewhere. He’s in college and he hasn’t turned tricks since he first moved out here from Chicago. Yes, he still periodically rifles through trash for people’s discarded soda containers so he can take them to Stop-N-Shop for the five-cent deposit — but really, those cans and bottles shouldn’t be in the trash in the first place. Keith’s probably doing his ecological duty as a citizen of the world by rescuing the Coke cans and Mountain Dew bottles, then dragging them to the proper receptacles. If the State of Massachusetts wants to give him money for that, then he won’t argue. And as for Shiro…

Obviously, Keith wouldn’t have gotten here without Shiro. Period, point-blank, there is no other way to phrase things. Shiro was the one who believed that Keith could get his GED after getting booted from the foster system before he could finish high school. He was the one who stayed up all night on the musty old futon, going over test prep materials with Keith when Shiro could’ve gone out on the town and gotten laid. He was the one who believed that Keith would do alright in community college, that he’d secure a good enough transcript that any university would believe that he belonged in their classes. He was the one who believed in Keith so much that he refused to let Keith pay him back financially, whenever he spotted Keith the cash for one of his application fees, one of his standardized tests that someone wanted him to take, one of his submission fees for any of the essay contests that Keith ever entered.

Shiro was the one who offered constructive criticism on those essays. Who went through revision after endless revision with Keith, trying to help him polish his work so that the review committees would see the promise in it that Shiro did. Who held Keith’s hand every step of the way while he worked his ass off to rack up list of accomplishments that could outweigh the fact that, when you strip away any façade or veneer that he can strain himself into putting on? At the heart of everything, the ultimate truth of Keith Kogane is that he’s little more than a babbling, bad luck nuisance from Middle of Nowhere, Texas, whose parents abandoned him — probably because they could tell, even in his childhood, that Keith is broken and worthless, that he’s basically a monster, that he’ll never be worth the effort that it takes to love him — and who made his way up to Chicago, and then out east to Massachusetts, by trading blow-jobs for relatively safe passage. Because sucking dick and licking clit are two of the few things in the universe that Keith cannot question his own skill at doing (nor can he entirely credit Shiro with it, though he definitely took a few pointers from Shiro’s technique).

So, it’s an inarguable fact: Keith wouldn’t be a student at Kaltenecker University right now if not for Shiro. If not for Shiro believing in him. If not for Shiro putting time, and money, and effort into supporting Keith and building him up in ways that Keith did nothing to earn — and that he would’ve repaid better, if he’d ever deserved them in the first place. If he’d had even a shred of gratitude and decency to his name, then Keith never would’ve allowed Shiro to fall apart as badly as he did. Shiro never would’ve needed to leave — he never would’ve needed to abandon Keith for the sake of his own well-being — because if Keith had _ever_ deserved Shiro’s kindness, then he would’ve been able to do right by Shiro and give him what he needed.

Not that it makes any difference, now. Not that there’s anything Keith can do about any of this — whether for his past-self or, more importantly, for Shiro, who deserves everything that he could ever want and more — except for continue to keep living, the way that Shiro asked him to do in that godforsaken fucking letter. That fucked up mess of shitty chicken-scratch and tear-stains that, in two-and-a-half years, Keith has read and reread so many times that he could recite it backward, but that he hasn’t brought himself to get rid of yet.

Maybe he will get rid of Shiro’s letter. Someday in an unknown future, when he’s a better person who doesn’t need that reminder of how badly he screwed up. How he failed the only person who never gave up on him and how he let Shiro down when he needed someone to be there for him, the way that he helped Keith.

As usual, though, brooding about Shiro does nothing to help anybody.

All that Keith gets out of brooding about the boy he loved, and hurt, and lost because he never deserved to be with Shiro in the first place? Is a gnawing headache like he hasn’t eaten all fucking day, an empty feeling in his chest like his entire soul’s been scooped out like goddamn ice cream, and a nagging suspicion that everyone he cares about might be better off if Keith went and jumped off the nearest bridge.

But they wouldn’t be. If nothing else, he’d hurt Allura by doing that. He’d disgrace whatever memories he gets to keep of Shiro, and he’d prove right everyone who said that he would never win Kolivan over because why would Kolivan waste his time on Keith.

Thankfully, those feelings are quieter on Saturday. Despite having bigger names on the program, the conference feels so much easier to get through, during its second day. Keith takes as many notes as he did on Friday, sure — but things feel calmer. More relaxed. Easier to handle. Which is a blessing, because Kolivan made it clear that he expects Keith to show up for the reception on Saturday night. He expects Keith to wear something nicer than jeans and a t-shirt, and he expects Keith to put on his best behavior, no matter how much he wants to fight anyone and no matter how much he dislikes the process.

Specifically, he voiced those expectations in a way that made Keith feel like arguing about this would end in Kolivan’s disappointment.

But Keith must do a halfway decent job, because Kolivan invites him to stick around in his office, after taking him up there to reclaim his backpack. Keith had to leave it there during the reception, which was fair enough. He intended to simply collect his things and leave, because Coran’s waiting to give him a ride back to the townhouse. Yet, as soon as, Kolivan puts the invitation out there, Keith finds himself flopping onto the office’s sofa and staring up at his advisor’s ceiling.

Despite how loudly his brain screams at him to get up and leave already — despite knowing that Kolivan doesn’t mean anything by his questions about how Keith’s found the conference, what he thinks about he different panels that he’s gone to, how he’s responded to the different poster sesson presentations — Keith’s whole body is dead fucking _tired_. His limbs feel like they’re weighed down with ten-ton anvils. His head feels so heavy that he lets it loll back onto the cushions and doesn’t bother trying to look Kolivan in the eye. His body, apparently, wants Keith to stay here. Moving sounds like an awful lot of work without any meaningful payout.

After a while, Kolivan prods him about where he thinks he fits into everything. At first, all Keith can do is shrug.

Except he owes Kolivan an actual answer, so he tries saying, “I don’t know… I’ve enjoyed it all? And it’s been a really good experience? But what are you trying to… I don’t really feel like I…” Quirking his shoulders again, Keith shakes his head. “Where am I supposed to fit into this? Into any of it?”

Kolivan tilts his head like he’s trying to puzzle out some kind of hidden meaning. “Where do you _want_ to fit into this, Keith?”

 _Right now_ , Keith doesn’t allow himself to say, _I don’t feel like I fit into any of this and I don’t think that I ever will._

Instead of offering up something so wildly unhelpful, Keith wilts and relents, “Right now, I don’t know if I can really make a good call about anything? I mean… Everything’s been kind of a lot. Not just the reception, either. The panels were a lot, the presentations were a lot, and it was _good_? But still, it’s like…”

Taking a deep breath, Kolivan nods. Rather than address that comment, he says, “You realize that we will have another conference like this next year, yes?” Waiting for Keith to nod, he pushes his glasses up his nose. “After you have rested and gotten back to yourself, I strongly suggest that you consider submitting an abstract for next year’s conference. You and Allura would do well on one of the students’ panels. Although they are primarily showcases for graduate students, we have featured advanced, exceptional undergraduates in the past. Should you want my assistance, I will work with you in whichever ways best suit you, and give you whatever help you need.”

Keith gasps as something drops onto his shoulder.

He sighs at his own stupidity when he sees that it’s only Kolivan’s hand.

Swallowing thickly, he blinks up at Kolivan’s face, transfixed by his advisor’s gaze as Kolivan tells him, “Consider this idea, Keith. You would be doing a great disservice to your talents and your work if you did not at the very least _attempt_ to go out for next year’s conference.”

Which sounds fake as Hell, but what else can Keith do, when Kolivan’s staring at him so earnestly? He’s gotta promise that he’ll think about it.

*** * ***

Keith told Coran that he’d go straight to the car after finishing up with Kolivan.

Instead, he ducks into Java Hut because they’re still open and God help him, Keith wants to drown himself in coffee.

Once he has his extra-large slow-drip, as black as they are legally allowed to serve it, he should head for the car. That’s what he promised, and if nothing else, he doesn’t want Coran to worry about him unnecessarily. Not least since Coran might decide to tell Allura about any reasons Keith might give him for concern, and then she’d worry, too. There’s no sense in worrying about Keith, he tells himself as he heads for the library.

Except going into the library would definitely look like he’s hiding from Coran. It might look like he’s actively avoiding any attempts at going back to the townhouse, rather than simply snagging a moment alone. Relatively speaking, anyway.

So, Keith perches on the wide banister by the stairs. He slouches back into the wall, takes the deepest breaths that he can get and chokes down several shudders as the cold air slams into his lungs, and tries to will himself back up to his feet. Thankfully, midterm season being freshly over means that hardly anyone goes into or leaves the library. None of the people who come or go stop to bother Keith. Which he’d appreciate more vocally, if he felt like talking to any of them. But seeing as he doesn’t, he lets himself sit in silence. Breathing. Drinking his coffee. Trying not to get so lost in his own head that he forgets to head over to the car eventually.

His phone buzzes a couple times, though. Once, it goes off as if it’s ringing. If he hadn’t turned the sound off, it likely would. And dimly, in the back of his mind, Keith can guess who’s calling him: Coran or possibly Allura, asking where he’s wandered off to. Asking why he and Coran aren’t back at the townhouse yet. Asking why Keith hasn’t yet come back to a place he cannot go, assuming that he ever could. Not the physical location of the townhouse, but—

“Keith? Oh, good heavens, there you are!”

—Biting the inside of his cheek, Keith makes himself look up at Coran’s too-easy, sympathetic smile and the omniscient-seeming way his orange mustache twitches. He props his chin on his knees, and he _should_ have anything to say for himself. But even as Coran comes over to reassuringly pat his shin, Keith’s got nothing. Save for the blank space where his brain should be, but that’s about as helpful as brooding over people he’s never going to see again, which is to say: not very fucking helpful, to be completely honest.

“I wondered where you’d got off to,” Coran says brightly, as if he isn’t catching his daughter’s boyfriend of almost-two years in the act of being a complete and utter headcase. “I saw Kolivan leaving with Antok, and he said that he hadn’t seen you since you’d left his office.”

“Yeah, sorry… I was gonna head for the car soon, I just…” Keith quirks his shoulders. “I guess I got distracted.”

“Ah, well, no worries. That happens to the best of us. Especially after a long day — or a pair of long days. Which I’d bet is very likely what it’s been for you, what with the conference and how intellectually invested you’ve gotten…”

Coran trails off as if he could start into one of his seemingly infinite stories about any of the hijinks that he, Alfor, and Fala got up to in their reckless, irresponsible youths. As he hesitates, probably trying to pick out the exact anecdote that best suits this situation, Keith lets slip a sigh. He nestles his face up against his legs because there’s no sense in trying to pretend he isn’t tired. Coran wouldn’t be the Assistant Dean of Student Life at a place like Kaltenecker U. if he were any kind of stupid. Sure, people take him for granted. People act like he can’t possibly be a genius on the same level as Alfor and Fala, or even the same level as Allura — but that’s their mistake. Either way, Coran can surely tell that staying awake is asking a lot from Keith right now.

Vaguely, Keith hopes that Coran _can’t_ tell how he’s so tired, he doesn’t think that napping for a year would help him any. But he wouldn’t put money on a bet like that. For one thing, Keith can’t afford to lose what little financial safety-net he has. For another, he doesn’t want to bet against Coran in the same way that certain fucking classist assholes would do.

Rather than a story, Keith gets Coran’s hand patting his foot. “Come on, now,” he says, more gently than Keith deserves. “Let’s go home.”

 _I can’t go home, Coran_ , Keith doesn’t let himself say because it would very definitely register in Coran’s mind as a Very Serious Reason For Concern. Besides, it might seem ungrateful, regardless of how Keith’s mind tacks on, _You and Allura and Alfor have done your best for me. I appreciate it. And I don’t feel like so much of an interloper anymore. But I haven’t had a home in two-and-a-half years, and there’s nothing that you or anybody else can do about it._

Even though Keith stays quiet, Coran shuffles to his side and rests a hand between Keith’s shoulder-blades as if he can tell that something’s wrong. In this case, it’d be so much better, if Keith could actually fool Allura’s Dad. If he could keep Coran from picking up on how right he is… If he could pull the wool over Coran’s eyes and somehow magically keep him from realizing that Keith is _not_ okay, even though he has no reason for being like this, and keep him from realizing how much Keith deserves to get called out and put in his place for acting like such a brat when he has a better life than some people could even dream of… Maybe duping Coran into believing he’s okay wouldn’t make _everything_ better, but it’d be a huge load off Keith’s shoulders.

Because Keith’s failure to be okay shouldn’t be Coran’s problem. Because he wants to help so badly, but there’s really nothing he can do. Not when Keith’s been like this in one capacity or another for practically as long as he can remember. Not when it’s only gotten worse since he left Chicago and it’s likely never getting better.

In lieu of being able to wriggle out of this, Keith lets himself sigh. “How do you deal with it, Coran?”

“Hmm, do you think that you could…” Coran makes an odd sound, like he can’t decide what he should say or not. “I don’t wish to put too much of the burden here on _you_ , Keith. Not after you’ve had such an exciting couple days, but… Could you explain what you mean?”

Truthfully, Keith’s explanation would go something like, _How do you deal with knowing that so many people think you don’t belong in your marriage? Or like you don’t belong in your entire life_ ** _because_** _of who you married? Because it’s not like you can magically change people’s conceptions of who belongs with whom just by marrying Alfor, and how do you put up with knowing that people think you’re a fake, and a gold-digger, and that Alfor never should’ve married you because you’re probably trying to take advantage of him for his status and his money?_

What he offers up Coran instead goes, “The old Altean class system, I mean… Your family was nobility, right?” He waits for Coran to nod, even though he already knows the answer. “But you were definitely _minor_ nobility? Like, nowhere near the same level as the House of Raimon?”

“Oh, quite far from it,” Coran agrees, laughing fondly. As though literally any of this is funny. “The House of Raimon had several members who sat on the Altean throne, several members who passed on the knowledge of older Altean customs and practices… Meanwhile, my own great-great-great-grandfather earned our family’s title and holdings after he designed the Castle of Lions, back in the old capital city—”

“Yeah, so… How do you deal with that? I mean, in everybody else’s terms, you married up in a _big_ way, right? More than you should’ve been able to do? Even in a diaspora… Even without Altea being around anymore, it’s like…” Keith lifts his head and looks up at the sky. The stars and street-lamps have no answers for him, but that’s his fault for trying to find any instead of trying to make his questions come out closer to what he really wants to ask Coran. This utter silence from the universe is what Keith gets for thinking that anyone or anything should help him.

Granted, a not-insignificant part of Keith remembers that he shouldn’t unload this garbage on Coran. Not when he _knows_ there’s nothing that Coran can really do for him, so there’s no good reason to burden Coran with problems he shouldn’t need to worry over.

But clamming up now might make Coran start fretting even more than going on at him like a selfish nut-job. He’s doing a horrible job of saying what he means — but at least Keith makes himself spit out, “How d’you deal with so many people — so many other Alteans, even? So many of _your own people_? How can you put up with them thinking like you don’t deserve to be with Alfor? Like you don’t deserve to be Allura’s Dad, or like you don’t deserve anything about the life you’ve made together? And acting like you don’t… Like all the work you’ve put into everything doesn’t even _matter_ just because you’re not… Not by _birth_?”

Heaving his own bone-deep sigh, Coran wilts and lets his shoulders droop. As he joins Keith in gazing toward the stars, even his mustache seems to sag. God, Coran deserves so much better than this lot that life’s thrown at him. He deserves so much better than all of the people telling him that his husband and their daughter shouldn’t love him like they do. He deserves better than having to answer to Dean Zarkon, having to basically run the Office of Student Life on his own because Zarkon couldn’t give two fucks less about their job and only wants the power that came from his position. Coran deserves infinitely better than standing out in the cold, in the middle of the night, trying to comfort someone whose only problems are things that he created by himself, through being a fucking idiot.

Yet, Coran offers Keith a small, hopeful smile as though he doesn’t mind at all. As though there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and nothing better that he could be doing with his time. “I don’t suppose it would offer you much comfort to know that ignoring such uninvited naysayery gets marginally easier?”

Keith shakes his head. “Not at the moment, no.”

Coran huffs as though he expected that. Or maybe more like he’s chastising himself to the tune of, _Oh, quiznak. But yes, I suppose that I should have expected that._

Rather than cursing anything about this situation, though — rather than rightfully cursing Keith for laying it at his feet unnecessarily — Coran rubs gently at Keith’s back. As if he truly doesn’t mind getting so embroiled in things that are not and should never be his problems.

As though he genuinely believes that there’s any hope for Keith, Coran tells him, “I won’t pretend that any of it is ever easy. It _gets_ easier, but even then, when you have a chorus of people on all sides, telling you the same thing that you already, on some levels, fear is true? Persisting through such doubts often remains quite difficult. A large portion of what sees me through the rougher spots, Keith? Is simply relying on the people around me. Knowing my family, knowing my beloved. Trusting that Alfor loves me truly.”

Another smile and a gentle squeeze of Keith’s shoulder. “Just as Allura loves you.”

Whether or not that’s true, it makes Keith’s breath hitch in his throat. It sends a chill shocking down his spine and leaves the inside of his chest feeling like it’s caked in permafrost. Like he’s finally catching the consequences for his selfishness and he’ll never get to feel warm again.

Throwing back the last of his coffee doesn’t help. Still, he mutters his thanks as he pries himself off of the stone banister. As he tosses on his backpack, his mouth more or less takes over for him. Makes him agree with Coran’s earlier statement that they should seriously pack up and get back to the townhouse before it gets too late.

Even without input from his higher brain, Keith’s mouth knows better than to call the townhouse, _“home.”_

Sure, he’d probably make Coran and Allura feel better, if he would. Failing to do so is probably some kind of ingratitude.

But facts are facts, and the facts in this case are remedial-level simple: the townhouse is not Keith’s home and it literally never will be.  


As Keith skulks through the quad, eyes locked onto the sidewalk and legs moving so quickly that Coran calls after him to please slow down, he can’t imagine that he’ll ever get so lucky as he did back in Chicago. He had everything that he could’ve wanted — he had the home that he’d never been allowed to have before — and through his own concentrated stupidity, callousness, and failure to keep his promises? He blew everything and ruined Shiro’s entire life in the process.

Sharing that story with Coran and Allura would no doubt make them turn him away, the way they should’ve done ages ago already. Sharing it with Kolivan would lose Keith one of the only opportunities he has to properly do right by the one person who never gave up on him, who sacrificed _everything_ for him, even though Shiro shouldn’t have done that for Keith. Even though Shiro should’ve done the _smart_ thing — the thing that would’ve shown any degree of concern for his own well-being — and abandoned Keith like his parents did, before Keith had the chance to destroy him.

As Keith rounds the corner and slips into the faculty parking lot behind Montgomery Hall, he sighs. Nothing about his life makes any sense because none of it should’ve happened. Not to him. Yet, he can’t throw any of it away without spitting on Shiro’s sacrifice and his belief in the worst of all possible ways.

As he slouches against Coran’s car, Keith lets himself glance around the lot. Predictably for this time of night on a Saturday, it’s practically empty — save for one other vehicle, a sports-car. From here, it looks sleek. Expensive. Probably capable of hitting some impressive speeds. Part of Keith perks up just from looking at it and makes him gasp. That dangerous spark flares up in the back of his skull, the same way that it did when Alfor first let him see the Jag, even though he knew he’d never get to drive that beauty. God, he should go over there, just to see up close what kind of car he’s envying.

Except Keith stops dead in his tracks before he’s taken a single step in that direction. There are people over by the car. Specifically, two people.

More specifically, two people who are splayed out on the hood and wrapped up in each other. Even though he can only make out their silhouettes, Keith can tell they’re making out. Whoever’s on top has one of their feet popped up like something out of _The Princess Diaries_ and everything. When one of them lets slip a moan, Keith ducks his chin and blushes. His heart drops into the pit of his stomach and his lungs writhe around his chest, heavy with guilt and the knowledge that _holy shit, this is a scene that he should not be watching_.

If nothing else, these people deserve some modicum of privacy. _Not_ to have their moment crashed in on by a stranger who can’t keep his eyes to himself. Who apparently can’t help himself and always ends up interloping when he has absolutely zero rights to do so.

When Coran finally catches up, Keith barely holds back from sighing in relief. He fumbles into the passenger seat as silently as possible. God, he needs to get out of here. Needs to get back to his guest room, where the four walls, at least, will mostly keep him out of trouble.


	7. Thursday, February 18th, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the bulk of this chapter being a therapy session between Shiro and Ulaz, there’s also some brief homophobic language (used with reference to some of Shiro’s old lacrosse teammates, including Keith’s abusive former foster brother, throwing said homophobic language at one of their teachers).

Telling Ulaz about the plan to dedicate the band’s traditional punk cover of a not-exactly-punk song does not get the reaction Shiro wanted.

Mostly, it makes Ulaz arch an inscrutable eyebrow and purse his lips in the way he usually does when he wants to outright tell Shiro that he’s doing something stupid. As he does under most circumstances, though, Ulaz makes a sound like it’s taking a great deal of effort not to sigh at Shiro and pushes his silver, wire-rim glasses up his aquiline nose. He nods as he listens to Shiro explain the fact that he really liked Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” back in middle school, and he’s been practicing it with Hunk, Pidge, and Lance because he felt like he needed some of the catharsis baked into the lyrics.

“Then, I kinda thought, like? ‘Wow, some of these lyrics are so appropriate for Lotor that it _hurts_. He could totally stand to hear this song. And have it dedicated to him.’” At Ulaz prodding him for what he means, Shiro explains, “I mean, the chorus is all, _‘Why’d you have to go and make things so complicated? I see you actin’ like you’re somebody else, gets me frustrated.’_ Which is true? And then there’s, _‘You become somebody else ‘round everyone one else. You’re watchin’ your back, like you can’t relax’_ — that one might not be _exactly_ fair? I mean, he’s so guarded because of his parents and what they’ve put him through?

Shiro shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. Sinking back into Ulaz’s office sofa, he twists one of his fingers up in his long, white fringe. “Dedicating the song to him seemed like a good idea because… Lotor likes it when people do special things for him? He tries to _act_ like he doesn’t enjoy it, but he does. I think that he likes the attention, and he really hasn’t gotten enough positive attention in his life, so of _course_ , he responds positively to getting it.”

 _Unless he’s in the sort of mood where he lashes out like a hell-cat_ , Shiro doesn’t allow himself to add because things have been going well with Lotor, lately. They’ve been going really, _really_ well and God help him, Shiro doesn’t want to jinx anything by talking about any of the times when Lotor pushes him away for caring and insists that Shiro’s eventually going to leave him anyway, no matter how many times Shiro’s told him otherwise. No matter what Shiro’s done to try and convince him that all he ever needs to be with Shiro is himself, uncensored and unfiltered, exactly as he is.

Shiro also doesn’t want to talk about all of the times when he bottles things up and lets them build until he blows the lid off on his temper. He doesn’t want to talk about the times when he’s the one who lashes out, when he starts biting and snarling because Lotor’s being so _demure_ and _gentle_ that it feels like he isn’t acting like himself, even though Shiro’s done everything that he can think of to try and convince Lotor that he’s _safe_ , that Shiro _loves him_ — that he doesn’t have words for how much he loves that purple-haired drama prince — and that Shiro isn’t in the habit of leaving people, much less the people who he loves as much as he loves Lotor.

(As Ryou and Ulaz know, it would be more accurate to say that Shiro isn’t in the habit of doing that anymore. That he hasn’t been in that habit since he left Chicago. But unless he ever lucks out in ways that will probably never happen, all that Shiro can do to put right the way that he ran out on Keith? Is continually trying to be a better version of himself, like the Shiro who ever would’ve deserved Keith — but he doesn’t want to talk about that, either.)

Shiro _really_ doesn’t want to talk about the times when it feels like Lotor’s being far too careful with him. Like he’s stepping on eggshells around Shiro. Not like he’s trying to avoid setting Shiro off in the ways that he does with his freak show parents — which would suck and make Shiro feel disgusted with himself, but at least it’d be better than feeling like Lotor thinks he’s two steps from having a nervous breakdown.

Feeling like he’s a loose cannon or a Vesuvius waiting to happen would be so much better than _knowing_ that Lotor’s doing his levelheaded best to put on a pair of velvet kid-gloves with him. Pretty much anything in the universe — barring a few obvious exceptions like going back to Chicago or dealing with Maurice literally ever again — would be a vast improvement on feeling like everyone who cares about him thinks that Shiro is so fragile, even one tiny little instance of saying something in the wrong way could shatter him. Could push him in the mud like little kids on a playground and knock him back several steps on the road to recovery (as though recovery itself hasn’t already done that to Shiro more times than he entirely wants to count).

God, he doesn’t want to talk about those efforts at self-censorship on his boyfriend’s part. He doesn’t want to talk about how Ryou and his friends refuse to understand the fact that Shiro would _rather_ deal with Lotor’s hard edges. He likes it so much better when Lotor doesn’t give him leeway, when Lotor _doesn’t_ let him get away with things. He’d _prefer_ getting called out when he’s acting like a self-destructive idiot, instead of being mollycoddled like he’s so weak — like he’s so unstable and so far beyond the reach of anything resembling constructive help — that he can’t even handle being told that he’s having a bad idea and should do better for himself.

Never mind the way that Lotor continually seems to forget the fact that, as Shiro’s boyfriend, he’s _supposed_ to be honest with him like that. He’s _supposed_ to let Shiro know he’s being stupid and he’s _supposed_ to flat-out tell Shiro when he’s acting like his worst self. Shiro would do so many things to get out of talking about that, because if anything is gonna jinx the good run that he and Lotor have been on recently and make everything fall to pieces? Then Hell yes, it’s probably going to be that.

Because he and Lotor _have_ been on a good run of things, lately. They haven’t had any fights. They haven’t tried to break up since shortly after Lotor’s birthday, back in November, which lasted for exactly thirty-six hours before they came running back to each other, babbling strings of apologies for doing things the wrong way, for not giving each other what they really needed most. They’ve been open with each other about anything they’ve disliked, about any of the problems that they’ve been having. Over Christmas, after cousin Tatsuya pushed Shiro too hard about his recovery — about his eating disorder in general, really — calling Lotor was the only time when Shiro felt accepted and safe enough to let himself get the release of crying.

How, then, could anybody pretend that Shiro and Lotor have been having yet another rough patch? Aside from Ryou, Shiro guesses — but after Shiro explained the situation back at Aunt Satomi’s, even Ryou relented and dropped his stupid idea that Lotor was the reason why he’d found his brother clinging at the stuffed black lion that Hunk gave him for his last birthday and sobbing himself halfway into dehydration.

Granted, the actual reason has made Ryou get on a kick about how they shouldn’t go out to Rancho for Christmas this year. But there’s still time until December, so Shiro has some wiggle room to change his brother’s mind.

In the meantime, he says, “I mean, it’s not like Lotor’s in the wrong for needing some positive attention and TLC in his life, right?”

Shiro chuckles into the yawning silence that surrounds him in the office. Not that he thinks Ulaz is _trying_ to make things awkward — if anything, Ulaz is probably weighing all the options for things that he could say right now — but the absence of talking grates on Shiro’s nerves. Makes him tap his thumb against his own cheek, like Lance banging out the _Super Mario Bros._ theme music when he’s fidgety and bored and might have possibly forgotten to take his Adderall today.

“I mean, everybody tries to say that Lotor’s some kind of melodramatic black hole in human form, but?” Shiro quirks his shoulders. He tugs on his white fringe, but he doesn’t do it hard enough to pull out any hair or genuinely hurt himself, so it can’t count as self-harm. “That’s just because they don’t really know him like I do. They haven’t given him a chance. Not really. I mean, Hunk and Ryou kinda have, but he wasn’t doing his best when they met him for the first time — and wanting attention or affirmation only makes Lotor human, right?”

“This is true. Most people enjoy getting positive attention,” Ulaz agrees, which should be encouraging.

Except for how he says this with a tone like he’s planning to turn this into an epic reversal of whatever Shiro thinks he’s getting into.

The _Look_ he’s giving Shiro over the rims of his glasses? It’s just like the one that Shiro got after switching from Zoloft to Wellbutrin made him lose over twenty pounds in about three-and-a-half months, which made Sophie all but outright accuse him of lying in his food journal and lying to her about backsliding as far as restricting his food intake went, which created a perfect storm with the doubt and self-loathing that Shiro had been sitting on since he first met Lotor’s parents, which overwhelmed Shiro and inspired him to give up six months of hard-won sobriety in favor of downing seven Diet Coke-and-Cuervos.

Slumping against the cushions, Shiro takes a deep breath, tries to steel himself for whatever calling-out he’s earned, this time.

Rather than giving him that, Ulaz sighs, borderline indulgently. “Will you bear with me for a moment, Shiro? Purely as an intellectual exercise, recount what happened when you had a show and dedicated a song to Lotor for his last birthday?”

Cringing more than he likes, Shiro folds his unoccupied arm over his chest. “Do I have to?”

“Merely as an intellectual exercise, as I explained.”

“Can’t we just skip to the point of the exercise instead of going through all the steps of it?”

Ulaz takes a deep breath, nods. “We _could_ — but based on precedent, Shiro? You _do_ tend to respond better — and you tend to consider the issues facing you more deeply — when we work through the problem step by step. Regardless of how much you might dislike doing so, during the process.”

Much as he’d really like to argue with that logic, Shiro knows he can’t.

Just as he can’t argue with it when Ryou wants to walk him through the different steps of proving things like, _“Well, yes, Kashi. Obviously, someone who has an eating disorder_ ** _could_** _bottom for a guy in whom he’s interested. Because you have an eating disorder and you’ve done this for more guys than Lotor, therefore…”_ and like, _“Yes, Kashi, based on recent events? More specifically, based on that bender you went on the other week? I would agree wholeheartedly with your statement that being on Wellbutrin is a potential relapse trigger for you. But I also think that you’re only addressing part of the issue by focusing on your medication to the exclusion of all other possible options.”_

It’s like Shiro’s gotten time-warped back to high school. He might as well be suffering through Mr. Ayers’s Geometry class all over again, bored out of his skull by how remedially simple the entire concepts of proofs seemed and consumed by a burning desire to to punch a brick wall every time Bryce or Trevor or any of the other lacrosse team guys ever called Mr. Ayers a queer, a fag, or a homo, then expected Shiro to join in laughing when, aside from the blatant homophobia, there hadn’t even been a joke in any of the garbage that they had to say. At least Lance will usually get to the point, when he objects to something that Shiro’s doing. At least he’ll spare Shiro from getting dragged through this whole humiliating routine as if he _needs_ to break things down into such rudimentary steps.

Kneading at his temple, Shiro breathes in deeply, evenly. He doesn’t need to go over any of his mindfulness questions because thankfully, he _knows_ that he isn’t back in Corpus Christi. He _knows_ that he’s in his therapist’s office, and he _knows_ that Ulaz has a point in all of this. He _knows_ full well that doing things Ulaz’s way tends to go so much easier for everyone involved — but as Shiro blinks at his therapist’s long face, at his high, sharp cheeks and his wide, overly patient eyes? Jesus, he wouldn’t mind throwing a tantrum. Being obnoxious and difficult about his creative process might feel incredibly satisfying, in the moment.

Shiro would probably come around to regret it later, though. So, instead of being a brat, he nods. “So, for Lotor’s last birthday, he tried to insist that he didn’t want me doing anything special for him. He tried to say that he really didn’t want me doing anything at the show that Pidge, the guys, and I were playing. Because he thought that it’d contribute to some kind of negative atmosphere, like? Promoting discord within the band, because Pidge and Lance — uh, in _his_ words about the situation? Not in mine?”

Shiro hesitates, waiting for Ulaz to nod before he echoes what Lotor told him back a few weeks before his last birthday, the night that they wound up snogging all over the hood of his Maserati. “He seemed to think that doing anything special for his birthday, and doing it at a Galaxy Garrison show? Would make _my_ band-mates fall into disharmony because Pidge and Lance openly despise him.”

“Can you disagree with that assessment of their feelings about him?”

“No, I mean, I guess not? Not _really_?” Letting himself sigh and roll his eyes, Shiro feels his lungs twist up in guilty knots, as if they’re protesting the fact that Shiro takes issue with the way that his friends have decided to care about him. “I disagree with him feeling like Pidge and Lance are _right_ to hate him or that he should accept their feelings because his parents have made him feel like everyone will inevitably hate him anyway? But I can’t argue with the statement that Pidge and Lance definitely hate him. I still stand by thinking that they’d understand him better, if they’d quit being so stubborn and give him a _chance_. And I mean a _real_ chance.”

Shiro wilts under the expression that Ulaz gives him, flat and all but outright asking Shiro if he’s entirely serious right now. “…Yes, I recognize the hypocrisy of stubbornly insisting that Lance and Pidge are being way too stubborn. But I don’t think that I’m in the wrong. Especially not for wishing that my friends would do more to accept my _boyfriend_.”

It might be relevant to point out that Shiro was Lotor’s boyfriend before he was a member of Galaxy Garrison. Therefore, Lotor was here first… Well, alright, technically, Hunk and Lance met Shiro first, practically right after he got out of rehab, so _they_ were here first — but that’s all semantics. The chief, salient point? Is that Lotor is important to Shiro, and Shiro loves him, and honestly, his friends should put a little more effort into accepting that Lotor is not a monster, the way they want to make him out to be.

Shiro’s dealt with _real_ monsters in his life. Every morning, Shiro wakes up and reminds himself of what he needs to do and the steps that he needs to take, so that he won’t give in to whatever darkness Maurice saw inside of him or let the pitch black, shadowy pieces of his heart consume him. Going through the self-care and little self-maintenance rituals that he’s learned over the past two-and-a-half years, Shiro turns those reminders over and over in his head, all so that he _won’t_ let his soul slip into an avalanche that swallows him up completely. All so that he _will not ever_ become the beautiful monster that Maurice thought he could have been.

That feels like a pretty important piece of the puzzle that neither Lance nor Pidge ever wants to deal with. If either Shiro or Lotor is any kind of monster — if either of them ever could be — then the obvious choice is Shiro. Lotor is a survivor of horrific abuse and neglect; Shiro, on the other hand, has done far worse things and hurt people like Keith in ways that Lotor never would.

But neither Pidge nor Lance hates Shiro. Neither of them thinks that Maurice broke Shiro down and rebuilt him into a chimera or a human weapon. They _love_ Shiro. They _believe_ in him. So, it’s blatantly ridiculous for them to hold Lotor’s damages against him like they do.

Except Ulaz pushes his glasses up again, giving Shiro a sagely, indulgent huff. “That frustration with your friends and brother is quite valid. That said, it is not entirely the point that I wish to build toward with you, at the moment. It is something that I think we should come back to later — next week, certainly, if we do not address it today. However, in the interests of moving our conversation forward…”

Taking a deep breath, he steeples his fingers and holds his hands up to his chest. “What did Lotor do and say when you _did_ dedicate that song to him, at that show?”

Shiro lets his head loll back onto the cushions. “In my defense? After we talked it out?” _And after we made out, then went back to his place and spent the night together._ “After I explained my point of view about the situation, Lotor relented and said it was okay.”

“I realize this. But that is not the question that I asked you.”

“And I realize _that_. I was just saying.”

If he’s honest, Shiro would more accurately say that he was stalling. Because he can guess where Ulaz might be leading them and maybe he doesn’t really want to hear it. But considering that he and Ulaz only have so much time together in every session — considering that he would much rather save the feelings about whether or not he’s a monster and turn them into lyrics, which he _can’t_ do, if Ulaz breaks down all the reasons why he thinks that Shiro’s wrong about them — Shiro takes a deep breath and nods.

“So, the song I dedicated to him was our cover of Britney Spears’, ‘Baby, One More Time.’ Which Lotor loves, even though he sometimes tries to pretend that he doesn’t. Like he’s too cool for pop music or whatever. Like I _haven’t_ him singing Ariana Grande in the shower and like he’s not waiting on pins and needles for her next album.”

But this is stalling again, and Shiro squirms under the scrutinizing arch of Ulaz’s eyebrow.

“Anyway, after the show, he got all _tetchy_ with me,” Shiro admits with a sigh that makes him feel like a spoiled brat. “Because the Britney song in question is technically an after-breakup song. And then he was all, ‘And oh, what about the hitting you part? Blah blah, even though it’s obviously a _metaphor_ , you don’t want to do BDSM with me, do you want me to treat you like _Maurice_ did? Stop caring about me and care about yourself.’ Which would be a valid concern, if not for the fact that he’s blatantly using it to push me away again. Except going like, ‘Why won’t you just let me _love you_ , Lotor’? He didn’t really appreciate that very much. So, we argued.”

Ulaz arches an eyebrow and nods by way of telling Shiro to go on.

He hugs himself and lets his legs splay out wherever they like. Looking up at the ceiling, Shiro sighs. “And then we broke up for thirty-six hours. Wasn’t even enough time for me to tell people that we split. Anyway, he came by the bookstore on Monday morning and we made up again. We snapped back together, just like we always do.”

With a pensive hum, Ulaz nods. “What were you trying to do by dedicating that song to Lotor?”

“I don’t _know_ , give him something _nice_? He likes the song, he likes positive attention… He tries to say that he _doesn’t_ , but…” The desire to keep sighing hits Shiro so hard and so deep, but for now, he squeezes himself tighter. It’s not enough, but it’s okay, he guesses. “I wasn’t _trying_ to give him any kind of message in particular, that time. He just got _paranoid_ and started reading too much into things. Like when he decided that I was cheating on him because my AA and NA meetings always happen at the same time, on the same days, every single week. Not like this time. All that I wanted to do for his birthday? Was give him something _nice_. The way that he _deserves_. Which, as I understand? Most people do for their significant others in one capacity or another.”

“So, you have something different in mind with this particular song, then?”

“I mean, I have an actual message that I want him to get out of ‘Complicated,’ yeah? The only thing I wanted him to get out of the Britney song was, ‘Happy birthday, babe. I love you and I know how much you secretly adore this song.’” Shiro quirks his shoulders. “Look, if he’s going to read into things anyway? Then why shouldn’t I have an actual intended meaning? I would if I were writing a new song for him. This way, we can at least haggle with each other over what all my actions are _supposed_ to mean, instead of arguing about what it means that I think my actions only mean, ‘Let’s do something cute and romantic, like people who love each other.’ At least, this way, I’m imbuing them with significance on purpose.”

Honestly, Shiro should’ve learned this lesson after certain fallouts involving a karaoke night, back in Chicago.

He should’ve learned this lesson when Ryou had to hold his hand through an explanation that, all things considered, Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” and George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” probably sounded significant to Keith, and that he probably didn’t agree with Shiro’s borderline blackout drunk reading of the latter as a love song. He should have learned so much better from that horrible birthday misadventure and from the way that he made Keith feel, back then. From the way that Keith spent several days emotionally shutting down, even though Shiro let him top one last time, the way he said he wanted. From the way that he started trying to emotionally pull away in the weeks that followed, to the point that Shiro thought Keith might’ve been looking for his own place again, that he might’ve been getting ready to leave Shiro, the way he should’ve done before and _would_ have done, if not for Shiro insisting that he stay. From the way that Keith barely had the energy to argue and seemed to fade to gray.  


If nothing else? There were so many things Keith said, the day after everything, and Shiro should’ve learned from them instead of subjecting yet another beautiful, sad, beloved boy to his obnoxious garbage: _“Obviously, we both **suck** at looking out for you, but at least I’m fucking **trying** , Shiro… You’ve been hurting yourself again, and you didn’t want me to notice, and that’s why you’ve been **fucking** me… I want to be so mad at you. But God, here you come again and there goes all my resolve. As if I ever had any, when it comes to you…”_  


After everything that happened when he and Ryou turned twenty-three? After everything that he put Keith through, that night? The fact that it’s taken Shiro so long to get the point about his miscellaneous screw-ups involving other people’s songs is another entry on the list of reasons why Shiro is, hands down and without question, the _real_ potential monster in his and Lotor’s relationship. It can’t be anything else.  


Good thing that Ulaz cannot literally read Shiro’s mind and start picking apart these thoughts, because he needs to put all these Keith feelings into a song already. Another one. It’s been so long since he tried to write a song for Keith, and clearly, Shiro needs to vent these emotions. Put them into one of the only things that, no matter how much he doubts himself and no matter how much he wants to tear himself apart, Shiro can’t take away from himself: his music.

In lieu of that, Ulaz hums in the contemplative way that he does when he sees too many options for potential questions. Too many things Shiro’s saying that they need to unpack before anything can fester and turn into something bigger than it already is. In fairness, that’s probably an accurate conclusion. More so than Shiro likes admitting.  


Out of all the possibilities, Ulaz opts for, “Do you think that Lotor will receive your intended message?”

“Probably not,” Shiro blurts out before he realizes which answer’s burning his tongue. “With our long list of priors, both separately and together? I’m going into this meaning, ‘Babe, I love you so much, but I don’t like the way that you stress yourself into playing these different roles and all these different characters — or _caricatures_ , more like — that aren’t the real you. God, I wish you’d just let yourself _be yourself_ more often. Because you’re an amazing person and I love you.’”

“What do you think Lotor will hear in the song that you did not intend?”

That question is more loaded than the lyrics of any cover song that Shiro could potentially dedicate to Lotor.

Hell, that question has more layers to it than the lasagnas and casseroles that Hunk gets it in his head to make when he’s feeling especially stressed about too many things, but he doesn’t want to talk about it until he’s given himself some time to simply feel upset. But he doesn’t like to do _nothing_ while he’s giving himself that consideration, so the kitchen becomes a mad scientist’s laboratory and Hunk assembles meals that defy so many unwritten rules that, even after all this time and all the work that he’s put into getting better, Shiro’s eating disorder wants him to take for granted as _common sense_. Never mind that so many of these rules have hurt Shiro, before. Doesn’t matter how often he’s weaponized them against himself. Whenever his mind gets like this in the face of Hunk’s stress-cooking? Some part of him still feels like his disorder’s objections sound completely reasonable.  


At least, for everything else that could potentially go wrong with Lotor, he understands why Shiro still trips over his own feet about certain things involving food. His body. Control. He doesn’t ask for explanations on the days when Shiro feels like he has to pick between sobriety and eating like a person who isn’t completely broken. All he does is welcome Shiro in, offering him shelter from the storm as if there’s anything that they can do when Shiro, himself, _is_ the storm. Or anyway, he might as well be.  


With a deep breath, Shiro tugs his hand back through his white fringe.

He makes himself straighten up, regardless of how much his body wants to sag into the sofa until he disappears.

Again, Ulaz prods with the question of what Lotor might hear in the song. Gently, he needles to ask if Shiro feels alright.

“I don’t know how Lotor could take this song or not,” Shiro admits. “There are a _lot_ of possibilities with him.”

Burying his face in his hands, he rubs at the bridge of his nose. Not hard enough to hurt himself — doing that in front of Ulaz would be an objectively bad idea, after all — but still, with enough pressure behind the gesture that he can practically feel his sinuses clearing out. They weren’t even clogged up in the first place. But now, they feel extra freed up, as if he might get through the rest of the winter and the early spring without any illness or infections, without needing to see Dr. Troy because of his upper respiratory system.

“The thing is,” Shiro mutters. “Talking to Lotor about this outright doesn’t work out, either. He doesn’t listen, when you break things down for him directly. He still finds ways to read into what you say, and twist it around. He doesn’t even _realize_ he’s doing it, most of the time, but…”

But things are going fine with Lotor, this time. They’re going well because they have to be. Because Shiro _needs_ for things with his beloved boyfriend to be going well. He _needs_ this proof that he’s getting better and that he hasn’t ruined everything.

Shiro needs this proof that he hasn’t let himself become a monster without realizing.

*** * ***

Heading out of Ulaz’s office, Shiro adjusts his messenger bag’s strap around his shoulder. He tightens the black-and-purple scarf that Lance knitted him as a Christmas present around his neck. He zips up his hoodie but leaves his actual coat open in case he needs to duck inside anywhere and quickly adjust to the heat. With one hand in his pocket, he switches his phone’s ringer back on.

As soon as he hits the sidewalk, the stupid thing _ding!_ s at him like crazy. Some days, Shiro really hates the fact that he gets no reception in Ulaz’s office. But he’ll feel worse if he ignores his phone. Even if it’s only silly automated emails from the specialty places where he got all his supplies for Ryou’s birthday present, Shiro needs to be sure that he’s not blowing off anything or anyone important. So, he ducks into the alley between the pizza place and a divorce attorney’s office, and he slouches into the cold brick wall.

Fifteen new texts. Six missed calls and four voicemails. Every single one of them from Lotor.

Jesus, he’s probably got one of his accidentally accurate feelings that somebody has been talking about him behind his back. For example, his boyfriend who loves him, and said lover’s therapist. Better to face the music sooner rather than later, but as Shiro goes to hit redial—

 _“Heaven help me: I need to make it right,”_ belts the digitized voice of Florence Welch as Shiro’s phone vibrates in his hand. _“You want a revelation? You wanna get it right? Well, that’s a conversation I just can’t have tonight—”_

“Hey, babe,” Shiro bites out as soon as he hears the click of the call connecting. “What’s up—”

“Where have you been,” Lotor croaks, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been calling, I thought—”

“I’m sorry, I was in with Ulaz. You know how the reception gets in his office—”

“Ulaz? I’m… Oh.” He takes a deep breath, and sounds like he’s trying not to let himself shudder. He’s not succeeding, but as always, Lotor is trying. Maybe not in the directions that the people who love him wish he would try, but still. “Right. Thursday. You go… So stupid of me to forget—”

“You are not stupid. That’s one of the last things that anyone could call you.”

“In the face of push shoving, I did not remember that my beloved sees his therapist at the same time, on the same day of the week, every single week, without fail, unless he falls so ill that he is physically unable to get out of bed. Forgive me, Kashi, but I fail to see how this oversight on my part _doesn’t_ constitute utterly monumental stupidity.”

“At least once a week, I forget where I put my keys when they’re literally in my hip pocket. No one’s perfect.”

“Perhaps not, but I would also argue that there exists a quantifiable difference between your tendency to misplace things and _my_ current forgetfulness. Especially in light of how you can be about your habits. And your rituals. And… everything else you do of such a nature. How can you even put up with… I’m so… And when you deserve so much—”

Another deep breath cuts him off, and this one shocks into Lotor. He swallows so hard that it comes through over the phone. Shiro holds back on a sigh, even though he can feel his heart shattering like a window getting smacked by a baseball. Jesus, something horrible must have happened to make Lotor sound so distraught. His voice is so tight that it could snap. He keeps gulping like he’s gotten called to his Father’s carpet or possibly his Mother’s. For a moment, he only manages to splutter out a string of half-baked syllables — and _God_ , Shiro was going to get unnecessarily defensive with him, assuming that Lotor would be in the mood to attack.

Some boyfriend he is. And Pidge and Lance want to make it out like _Lotor_ is the monster, here.

“I hope that it was a constructive session with Ulaz,” Lotor finally gets out. “Rather than one that leaves you all… You know? Out of sorts?”

“Lotor,” Shiro sighs, trying not to beg because it might make _Lotor_ get defensive instead. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, ha ha! Nothing, darling. Why would anything in the world be wrong?”

“Your words say, ‘No.’ But your fake laugh and how much you tried to reach me? That all says, ‘Actually, maybe, probably _yes_ ’?”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t need to… I should have called Acxa—”

“She’s at work until later. I have the afternoon off. Either of us would be there for you, but since I’m available…?”

Shiro takes a deep breath and holds it for a count of ten. Maybe he isn’t calm, exactly, but he has his wits enough about him to be there for his boyfriend instead of gossiping about Lotor with his therapist. He has himself together enough to do right by the guy he loves. Digging his back against the wall, Shiro listens to Lotor breathing like he doesn’t want to let himself cry, no matter how much he needs it.

Finally, though, Lotor relents, “I had a conversation with my Mother. It went… unideally.”

“Oh, Jesus, Lotor.” Shiro shoves himself up off the wall and darts back onto the sidewalk. Heading in the direction of Kaltenecker’s campus, he promises, “I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as possible, okay? Where are you?”

The basement of the science building, apparently. Great. Not only is it one of the furthest spots on campus from Ulaz’s office, but Lotor only hides down there when he’s a complete wreck. Practically no one wanders into the basement, not unless they _need_ to. Rumors constantly go around about how the place is haunted by so many restless spirits and how going down there tends to result in people being hurt or traumatized. If nothing else, the lack of windows and the old boiler room make the science building’s basement feel like an overheated swamp.

But things could be so much worse than this. As Shiro treks through the sidewalks, dodging the other pedestrians and the odd patches of black ice, he shoves his hands into his pockets and mentally turns over the different reasons why he’s grateful. True, it still feels silly — only slightly less ridiculous than it felt when they made him play this game in rehab — but he does it anyway. Because it’s been helping him since his last slip off the wagon, making him feel like he might get to a full year sober, this time. Because he needs to keep himself grounded if he’s going to help Lotor any, the way his boyfriend needs. Because so help him, Shiro _doesn’t want_ to be a monster.

So, Shiro hasn’t purged in ten months. Yes, he thought about it after breakfast this morning, and he thought about it after lunch. But he didn’t think about it during his shift at the bookstore, and either way, he didn’t yield to temptation. Since meeting Lance at The Blue Mermaid for lunch, Shiro hasn’t thought about stopping at CVS to get a toothbrush, gagging himself with it, and then deliberately making himself sick until right now, thinking about how long it’s been since he last thought about throwing up. Lance has been working with Shiro on a new song, and it’s a bit dark for Lance’s normal tastes, but it’s been good for Shiro to get some of these emotions out in a constructive way. Ryou’s getting ready to defend his dissertation, but for the past three weeks, Shiro hasn’t had to go to his apartment and put up with Slav, all in order to make Ryou consume something other than Thai takeout, Pixie Stix, and heart attack-inducing amounts of coffee, then take a shower and go to bed. He hasn’t had a drink since the bender that he went on after meeting Lotor’s parents. He’s still trying to reclaim the twenty-five pounds that Wellbutrin stole from him over the summer and September. As of seeing Dr. Troy for his annual physical last week, he still has sixteen pounds left to go — but considering that Shiro thought that he must have lost weight without meaning to again? There is nothing _only_ about Shiro putting nine pounds back on since October.

Held up at a crosswalk over by the Dos Santos theatre, Shiro allows himself to sigh. He curls his hand around his phone, clinging to it like that might help him prevent some kind of disaster. Which it _won’t_ , but at least this lets Shiro breathe more easily. At least it keeps him from fuming unfairly and losing sight of his gratitudes as he waits for the light to change.

The signal takes its sweet time, seemingly stuck on that mocking orange hand. Looking at it makes Shiro’s heart clench up inside his chest, so he looks around him. At the world, at the people. There’s a dog-walker with eight little guys dragging her around. A girl rushes down the other side of the street, her long, candy apple red braids bouncing against her back. Over by one of the parking meters, a man with a long, navy blue overcoat and very fine-looking orange mustache tightens a Burberry scarf around his neck.

“You know, I don’t have words enough for my gratitude,” he says with a sigh.

Furrowing his brow, Shiro tries to find who Overcoated Mustache Man thinks that he’s addressing. The likeliest candidate is kneeling on the ground by his dark green sedan, in black jeans and a heavy jacket, apparently breaking into Overcoated Mustache Man’s car. At least, that’s what it looks like they’re doing, given that their face is mere inches from the lock.

Shiro wrinkles his nose. This sure isn’t something that you see every day.

“Of course, I would have called Triple-A if it had only been my _keys_ that I locked in here after lunch,” Overcoated Mustache Man says, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “However, considering that my _wallet_ wound up in there as well—”

“It’s fine, Coran,” says the Apparently Helpful Lockpicker. “At least I’m using my skills for _good_ this time, y’know?”

Shiro perks up at that second voice. Something about it sounds so familiar.

But that can’t be right. He’s imagining things, he must be. There’s no way that Keith—

 _“Heaven help me,”_ Florence Welch’s digitized voice cuts into Shiro’s reverie. _“I need to make it right.”_

The phone vibrates against Shiro’s hand and Jesus Christ, Shiro should answer, shouldn’t he?

_“You want a revelation? You wanna get it right?”_

But if he picks up, then he might miss out on hearing any more of the Apparently Helpful Lockpicker’s voice.

_“Well, that’s a conversation I just can’t have tonight!”_

Except the signal changes. And Shiro can’t hear what the Lockpicker’s saying.

He _can_ hear Florence belting, _“You want a revelation? Some kind of resolution—”_

“Hey, babe,” Shiro sighs as he darts to the other side of the street. “I’m on my way, I promise. Just passing the theatre. I’ll be there soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiro: “Ha ha, everything is totally fine with Lotor, we’re great, it’s great, everything’s great.”
> 
>  _Arrested Development_ Announcer Voice: “In fact, everything was _not_ going great with Lotor, but Shiro felt like lying to himself for a little while longer.”
> 
> I’m just saying, Shiro: if you have Florence and the Machine’s “[No Light, No Light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)” set as your boyfriend’s ringtone and your response to a call from him is cringing, then maybe there are some things going on that you and he should talk about.


	8. Tuesday, November 8th, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned: This is the chapter that’s set on US Election Night 2016, or, “The night when the author’s country went right the fuck to Hell by electing a semi-sentient, borderline treasonous heap of badly spray-tanned dog vomit with a bad hairpiece and a distinct aftertaste of nuclear waste.”
> 
> As I said before: **This chapter is NOT a political essay; it’s a piece of fanfiction in which the characters discuss and interact with different sociopolitical issues.** I know what my opinions are (and I don’t think I’m particularly subtle about them), I know what the characters’ opinions are (at least in my approach to writing them), and for the purposes of this story, I’m way more interested in the characters’ feelings about and reactions to these issues, how these issues impact the characters’ lives and relationships, etc. If I wanted to write a political essay, then I would just go write one.

In and of itself, the fact that Kolivan and Antok are having people over to their place to watch the election results come in? Should probably be proof that the world as Keith knows it might decide to end tonight. Sure, Keith’s been over here more than his fair share, but as Kolivan’s advisee, he’s an anomaly. Applying his standards to anything typical doesn’t work.

Further apocalyptic signs no doubt lurk beneath the fact that so many of the evening’s guests don’t see the looming threat in everything. Which would make sense, if Keith were back in Texas and surrounded by certain members of his former foster families — but when Prorok is the only person in the entire house who self-identifies as conservative? When literally everyone here is somehow tied to the university and professors make up most of the assembled company? There shouldn’t be such a palpable buzz of positivity and excitement. Not on a night like tonight. Not until everything is said and done.

Sure, there’s something to be said for optimism in the face of insurmountable odds. It’s all well and good to believe that things can get better, even though every truth that you know down in your bones is telling you that this will never happen. Human beings _need_ some kind of hope or else they stop fighting. Why else would Keith stare down his reflection some mornings, and grumble at himself to shut up about how exhausted he feels and _go to class_ because Shiro wouldn’t have given up of him, so he can’t give up on himself, either?

But it feels wrong for Regris to show up on Kolivan and Antok’s doorstep, beaming brighter than a megawatt bulb and asking Keith for permission to give him a hug as if they’ve already won anything. He’s got his messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a long, brown bag in one hand, clearly something from one of the liquor stores in town. Neither of these facts would strike Keith as weird, on any other night. He might wonder what Regris thinks _“dry gathering”_ means and why he decided to bring alcohol to one, but that would be the extent of Keith’s scrutiny — if not for Regris bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he’s waiting for something amazing.

When he gets a nod of consent, Regris squeals in a way that Keith never would’ve expected from him. He scoops Keith up and pulls him in so close that there’s barely room for breath between their bodies. Or in Keith’s lungs, for that matter. But he hugs back anyway, gently patting Regris between the shoulder-blades because that’s polite to do while being glommed onto by a guy who’s vibrating with enthusiasm and who exists in some weird, nebulous realm between, _“colleague who actually respects Keith,” “someone who could be a friend, if not for the fact that Keith remains entirely himself,”_ and, _“someone who Keith would absolutely sleep with, if Regris ever wanted to, since Keith’s been single for long enough that Allura’s started seeing someone else and he’s genuinely happy for them both.”_

Some of Regris’s spark dims as he finally lets Keith go — and of course, as usual, the problem comes down to Keith. Or specifically, to Keith’s _face_ , if that’s why Regris tilts his head and peers at Keith so intently.

Shrugging, Keith points at the closet. “Uh, so, shoes and coats go over there, if you don’t—”

“Don’t look so gloomy, Spitfire!” Without waiting to check if Keith minds, Regris yanks him back in and gives him a firm squeeze. “Sure, it’s been a pretty horrid year, so far. But we’ll be electing this country’s first female president, tonight. Isn’t that _exciting_?”

“Should’ve been electing our first _Jewish_ president,” Antok calls from halfway up the staircase. Poking his head down, he smirks playfully and shoots a finger-gun in Regris’s direction. “Don’t tell me that you’ve abandoned all hope for President Sanders.”

“Mmm, for the sake of this election? Yes, I have. But for 2020, perhaps? If he feels healthy enough—”

“If not him, then we’re long overdue to see one of our own people chosen to sit in the White House. Instead of this long line of Christians—”

“Which does nothing to address the point that I was on!” Turning back to Keith, Regris softens. His smile looks so genuine — the hope and joy lighting up his face look so heartfelt and so _earnest_ — that Keith feels like he could be sick. The hand that Regris puts on his shoulder grounds him slightly — but then he has to go and say, “Really, Keith. Are you alright? Tonight’s a time for celebrating, don’t you think.”

As he blinks at Regris, Keith initially comes up with, _Not until that maggot-infested, fascistic sweet potato gets unquestionably defeated_.

But that would probably definitely ping on Kolivan’s radar as Keith not putting in enough effort at social graces for the evening.

This, in turn, would make him _disappointed_ because this little get-together wasn’t even his idea, and despite Kolivan’s litany of objections, Antok sweet-talked him into going through with this vaguely party-adjacent nonsense. Keith’s supposed to be helping make this process any easier for his advisor, after this semester’s been proving rough enough — alright, so, fine. He can’t make himself force a smile. He _can_ take a deep breath to ground himself, though. He _can_ refrain from saying something _quite_ so painfully downbeat and dragging the mood into the depths of Hell before there’s technically any reason for it.

“I just don’t want to pop the metaphorical cork preemptively, y’know?” Keith shrugs, lets himself sigh. “Sure, let’s hope for the best. Cross our fingers and who knows? Maybe it’ll turn out fine—”

“Considering that one of the options is a virulently racist, xenophobic, ableist misogynist who has openly admitted to sexual assault—”

“That isn’t going to stop anybody from voting for him!” As his voice echoes off the ceiling, Keith blushes. Jesus, some job he’s doing of minding himself. Hunching his shoulders, he ducks his chin and looks off toward the kitchen.

When he tries to make a beeline and escape in there, though, Regris follows after him. He sets his obvious bottle on the island counter, smack-dab in the middle of Kolivan and Antok’s kitchen, between a plate of some Galran dumplings and the plate with small triangles of spanakopita.

“Keith, please,” he says, so gently that it makes the skin crawl along the back of Keith’s neck. “I understand that you’re worried. So many of us have been on-edge for _months_. Since Trump first announced his candidacy, even. I spent my entire research trip fielding questions from people about how America could even let something like this happen—”

“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly blame the people who asked you.” For desperate want of _something_ to do with his hands, Keith fumbles over to the island. There’s no reason for him to fuss with any of the appetizers that he laid out earlier — but that doesn’t stop him from crouching by a plate of pigs-in-blankets and squinting at them. “I’m guessing that every other country in the world thinks that we’ve completely lost our minds, this time. Not that we could claim we _weren’t_ crazy and immoral _before_ —”

“You truly are intent on being negative tonight, aren’t you—”

“There’s a difference between being _negative_? And being rightfully worried that this country might damn well elect Donald Trump.”

Inhaling deeply, Keith moves on to poking a baking sheet full of pot-stickers with a toothpick. Again, there’s no reason for doing this. But it gives him something to do with himself. A way to potentially vent some of the energy that’s building up in him like he’s a bottle full of Diet Coke and Pop Rocks.

“And I mean, in the same kinda way,” he goes on with a pensive sigh, prodding a particularly large dumpling. “There’s a difference between America’s _usual_ standard of insanity — which is, like, on one hand? Jerry Springer, the entire reality TV industry, and all those news stories about people who taught alligators how to tap-dance or whatever—”

“I heard it was a crocodile. But I also heard that it happened in _Florida_ , so honestly, it could go either way—”

“Not the point, Regris! The point is that, on the other hand? We’re _usually_ insane like, ‘Oh yeah, let’s invade Vietnam because Communism and for no other reasons, nudge nudge, wink wink! Let’s invade Iraq, it’s totally for moral reasons and totally not because of corporate greed and how we unlawfully want to steal their natural resources’—”

“Stealing is generally assumed to be unlawful by default, Keith,” Regris points out with a snicker that almost comes out sounding _fond_. “It has been in most of Western civilization since time immemorial. There’s a Mosaic Commandment against it and everything—”

“Well, there’s still a difference between what I was saying before? And a fascist clown in an ugly hairpiece and a bad spray-tan, who openly talks about deporting Muslims and grabbing women by the pussies.”

“He’s been down in all of the polls, though! His numbers have been on a steady decline ever since the _Access Hollywood_ tape leaked—”

“That’s not the same as him no longer being a threat, and you _know that_!”

Taking three slow, deep breaths, Keith straightens up. Folding his arms over his chest, he slouches into a countertop along the wall and lets his head loll back against a low-hanging cabinet. Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, he concedes, “If we get through tonight _without_ Trump getting elected? Then you can tell me that you told me so for the next four years. You can call me every single day at four AM and wake me up just so you can tell me that I was wrong, and that I was too cynical for my own good, and that you told me so. Hell, you can tell me so until Inauguration Day, 2021. That’s about fifteen-hundred days—”

“I wouldn’t do that. For a week, perhaps, but dragging an, ‘I told you so’ out for that long—”

“But I’m not going to calm down until that miserable fucker has been defeated and consigned to the dustbin of history, where he _belongs_.” Keith drags his hands down his face. The sigh that escapes him reminds him of a ghost. The vengeful sort of ghost who hangs around, waiting to exact some kind of grudge. Hoping that Regris won’t draw a similar conclusion, Keith grinds his palm against the edge of the counter and says, “I’d rather be alarmist and get prepared than get my hopes up and have them wrecked because Trump and his supporters won the day.”

For a long moment, Regris goes so quiet that Keith almost wonders if they’re done with this conversation. He almost allows himself to think that Regris might slouch out to the living room to join Allura and Shay, so he can sit with some people who are infinitely less _negative_. He almost lets himself believe that anything in his life will literally ever go easily.

Instead, Regris sighs and leans on the counter next to him. “You truly are quite rattled about this? You don’t see any reason to think that the outcome might be better than you think?”

Keith shakes his head and stares intently at the linoleum of the kitchen floor. “I have a case that doesn’t involve pulling a Godwin’s Law and making ill-advised, potentially specious comparisons to Hitler’s ascent to power, too. Which… If you actually _want_ to hear any of it? I’d prefer _not_ to make any kind of Holocaust comparisons—”

“True, you are a Gentile, but…” Regris shrugs and gently squeezes Keith’s shoulder. “My maternal Grandparents have spent this election season being quite vocal about how much this reminds them of what happened during the rise of the Third Reich — especially considering the comorbid resurgence in vocal, open white supremacy and antisemitism.”

“Yeah, but it’s not _really_ my comparison to be making, y’know what I mean? Given that I’m not even slightly Jewish?”

Regris nods as if he’s considering something about this argument — but the vaguely pensive hum that he gives Keith sounds more like he’s trying to move them along to a different topic. “What is your case that _doesn’t_ involve making possibly questionable comparisons to Nazi Germany, then?”

“I mean, it’s probably just as questionable, but? It’s something questionable that I can speak to.”

Which isn’t exactly an answer — isn’t even remotely an answer — so Keith hugs himself tighter and tries to will himself to get the words out. He opened this reeking, putrid can of lutefisk, which means that he needs to deal with the consequences like someone who can pass for a normal, functioning adult.

“Look, when I lived in Chicago? There was an Assistant District Attorney who was a _monster_.” It takes all the effort Keith can muster not to let himself cough up a bitter laugh.

He’d deserve to hear that response from _someone_ , though. God, he’s standing here and saying things like that as if he’s in any position to judge Maurice, considering his own list of sins. Given everything that Keith did to Shiro and every way that he let Shiro down? He’s one of the last people in the universe who has any room to criticize that bastard.

But those parts of the story aren’t part of Keith’s current case.

Rather than dwell on the things that he can’t undo, Keith sighs and presses on: “So, that ADA had a taste for younger guys. Which wouldn’t have _necessarily_ been that bad, on its own? Except for how he used to go out on the town, looking for nubile, vulnerable young guys to take home and treat like _garbage_.”

Keith glances over at Regris, in case he wants to interject.

When all he gets is a sympathetic nod that screams _go on, please_ , Keith swallows thickly. “And people knew that he did this, okay? Because if he really liked a boy — y’know, for some really shitty value of the word, _‘liked’_ — then he didn’t mind showing him off. Taking him to events and parading him around like a prize that he, the ADA, had won. Usually while policing the Hell out of him. Telling him what he could or couldn’t be seen doing. Snapping at him for being a disgrace. Holding him to impossible standards without even fully explaining what they _were_.”

“How charming,” Regris drawls, tone a pretty equal mix of sympathetic toward Keith and disgusted by the very idea of Maurice. “While I do not mean to discount the significance of these experiences? I’m not certain how they connect to the current election?”

“In your defense, it’s not a direct line of thought, here.” Combing his hand back through his hair and tugging harder than he needs, Keith chokes down another sigh. “So, like I said, people knew that this ADA was fucking trouble. Plenty of people saw him taking one of his boys-on-the-side — oh, right, yeah. He had a committed partner back home, too, and his partner was a real piece of work in his own right—”

“In what sort of way do you mean?”

“You know that Mötley Crüe song, ‘Dr. Feelgood’?” Keith manages a smirk at the way that Regris lights up. God, he never thought that he’d be thankful to know someone who actually _enjoys_ 1980’s hair metal. “Yeah, well. The ADA’s partner was a lot like the drug dealer who Nikki Sixx wrote that song about. Except that he was also a legit medical doctor.”

“Oh my _stars_.” Regris huffs, and something flashes across his face like he has a mind to ask Keith another question.

Instead, he bids Keith to go on — and, well, how can Keith argue with that request? Putting the conversational Genie back into his lamp would probably constitute cruel and unusual punishment, at this point. With a shrug, Keith digs the small of his back along the edge of the counter, hoping that it helps anchor him in the moment.

“So, ADA Douchebag had a lot of boys-on-the-side,” Keith says, and God, he hates his voice so much for having the audacity to tremble like that. “But out of all the boys he screwed around with? He had one in particular who he was _exceptionally_ fond of. And he liked to take that boy out to these different fancy-ass events. Charity fundraisers at the Museum of Contemporary Art. All kinds of things at the ritziest, most exclusive and high-end hotels downtown. And it’s not like he was _subtle_ about thinking that he _owned_ this guy—”

Keith inhales sharply. He digs his fingertips into his elbow. Even through the protective shielding of his sweatshirt’s sleeves, he makes his hand into enough of a vise that it starts to hurt. “But ADA Douchebag’s parents were in high society. They had a name. They had connections and more money than God. His _mother_ wound up hosting most of the events where he wanted to show this poor guy off. Y’know, with, ‘Showing off’? Having a meaning that’s a lot more like, ‘Dragging him around by the collar, flashing him like the prettiest and most expensive bauble you could get from Tiffany’s, then slapping him around in private if he put even a single toe out of line’—”

“May I ask you something? In addition to the question that I just asked, I mean?” Once he has Keith’s nod of consent, Regris looks him in the eye. “You are speaking of this unfortunate boy in the third-person. But… Keith, were you—”

“What?! _No_. God, no, it wasn’t me, it was just…”

Keith gulps. Forces himself to meet Regris’s eye, so he won’t get things twisted around in his head and decide to unwittingly make all of _Shiro’s_ pain into some garbage about Keith. As if Keith is actually the one who suffered, back in Chicago. As if _Keith’s_ heartache — the lovelorn pining of someone who promised not to fall in love, then broke that promise, and got the boy he claimed to love into so much trouble because he couldn’t control himself — can compare to of what Shiro went through with Maurice. As if **_Keith_** endured even a fraction of what Shiro did and as if any of the pangs that he still carries even matter.

Quirking his shoulders (and failing to steady himself), Keith admits, “Somebody who I used to know.”

“I’m sorry.” Regris sounds like he means it. The hand he puts on Keith’s shoulder feels almost like a stand-in for a hug. Dimly, Keith wants to thank Regris for not scooping him up into one without permission. “What happened to him? To your friend?”

“I don’t know.” Keith hugs himself more tightly. Tries to curl up like a pillbug. “He left to get help. Then, I left to come here.”

Regris squeezes him so gently, it’s like he’s handling an irreplaceable, impossibly fragile, family heirloom vase. “I know that it likely offers you no comfort? But again, and for whatever it’s worth to you: I’m sorry that you had to lose someone like that.”

Taking a deep breath, Keith has no idea what Regris’s condolences are worth to him or not.

He has no idea what he’s supposed to say in this situation, either — aside from, _“Yeah, thanks,”_ which feels woefully insufficient. Unfortunately, they covered, “Talking about one of the only two people you’ve ever been In Love with and admitting that you basically ruined said beloved’s life to a guy who you like and might fuck someday, if he’s ever interested” in exactly none of the How To Better Pass As Neurotypical And Non-Autistic therapy that any of Keith’s foster families forced him through.

But in what might be this evening’s only lucky break, someone clears their throat. Looking to the source, Keith spots Kolivan. Right there, by the island, with one hand on his hip and the other holding up Regris’s suspiciously alcohol-shaped bag. Although Kolivan isn’t impatiently tapping his foot, the way that he purses his lips gives Keith the distinct impression that he could start doing so at any moment. On the other hand, it also fills Keith with the sense that Kolivan might very well decide to tell them that he isn’t mad about finding the bottle on his kitchen counter, but simply _disappointed_.

“What is this,” he says as if he can’t guess, arching an eyebrow in the way he always does when he will not be lied to by anyone.

Shrugging, Regris plasters on a hopeful grin. “Lanson Brut Black Label? I mean, when Clinton wins, we’ll all want to pop some bottles—”

“No. We all _won’t_.” Huffing as if he would prefer to sigh and roll his eyes, Kolivan swoops in on them. He shoves the bottle into Regris’s hands with the grace of an elephant trying to dance in _Swan Lake_. “What exactly did you interpret when Antok told you that this is a _dry_ gathering?”

“Come on, seriously? It’s celebratory champagne, Kolivan. Not a _pipe bomb_ or anything.”

“Champagne is alcoholic. ‘Dry’ means that there is to be no alcohol. Why did you—”

“It _barely_ even _registers_ , though. Twelve-and-a-half percent alcohol by volume—”

“Is enough alcohol that you would need to show identification to buy it. And enough alcohol to intoxicate, which is entirely my point.”

Regris groans like Kolivan won’t let him have the pony that he really wants. “So, what are we supposed to toast with when she wins?”

“Your choice of water, milk, soda, tea, coffee, or a variety of non-fermented fruit juices.” Giving Regris a _Pointed Look_ over the rims of his glasses, Kolivan makes the poor guy squeak. “Ask Antok to show you where the study is. Your champagne can wait in there and you may reclaim it when you leave to go home.”

Although Regris pouts, he mumbles a, _“Yes, sir”_ and follows Kolivan’s directions on where to find his husband.

Once he’s out of the room, Kolivan joins Keith in leaning against the counter. “Sometimes, advisee? Sometimes, I look at the department and wonder if you are my only current student who has any modicum of common sense whatsoever.”

Shrugging, Keith drags his hand back through his hair. “I mean, Shay and Allura didn’t bring any alcohol? Regris just got stupid over—”

“Over preemptively assuming that this election will play out agreeably. Which is what I actually referred to with that statement.”

Folding his arms over his own chest, Kolivan sighs in a way that Keith has never heard from him before. Exasperation, annoyance, anger, sometimes even a sentiment akin to sadness or sympathy — Keith has heard all of those from Kolivan before (and has caused Kolivan to sigh like that more than his fair share of times). But as he shuts his eyes and hangs his head, all Kolivan sounds is _tired_. The sort of tired that can’t be fixed by lying down for an hour. Even his sideburns seem to wilt. If Keith didn’t know better, he’d swear that he watches Kolivan’s skin fade out until it could blend in with the gray parts of his waist-length braid.

“As intelligent as Shay and Allura are,” Kolivan says, voice heavy and unusually plodding, “they have, like Regris and Antok and so many others, been swept up in an enthusiasm that is both preemptive and potentially unwarranted. Hope has uses, but ignoring reality is too dangerous — however grim, distasteful, or unpleasant we might find that reality. In the face of such pressing odds, we cannot allow for any complacency.”

Keith could be tedious and point out that it sounds like Kolivan is speaking from experience.

Instead, he offers, “I’m hoping for the best, obviously. I just don’t see the point in acting like we already have it.”

“Exactly why I say that you might be my only current student with an ounce of sense. You are currently showing up several of your professors, as well.” A deep breath, and Kolivan lets this one out as a huff. “My _migadye_ would have me stop comparing the current political climate to the rise of the Third Reich, and he has several fair objections—”

“Yeah, because the different levels of social and historical specificity affect everything. But the patterns are still—”

“I would offer a different, albeit far more personal, comparison.” Drumming his fingertips along his elbow, Kolivan says, “When I was finishing my undergraduate studies at Northwestern, a former Western film star from California announced his run for the presidency. As the process unfolded, I saw in him what Jimmy Carter saw: a dangerous, right-wing extremist who played on his good old boy charisma and constituents’ fear and bigotry in order to stir up support for his own agendas. He thrived on late Cold War anti-Communist sentiments, as well as hatred and resentment for anyone who did not fit his ideal model of white, upper middle-class, heterosexual American citizenship.”

Although Keith has read and reread Kolivan’s take on these events in _Building Mindscapes_ , he stifles himself. Pushes all of the potential objections down into his chest, because it’s so rare for Kolivan to share like this with anyone. Every word sounds loaded with significance and meaning, and his voice sounds so raw that Keith almost wonders if Kolivan is physically injured.

Instead of letting Keith ponder that for too long, Kolivan goes on, “I thought for sure that Ronald Reagan could not get elected. As his campaign raged on, my old friends and I worked with the Illinois Democrats and political progressives, trying to spread awareness of what could happen in the event of a Reagan-Bush victory and what Carter could have done instead. Helping people register to vote. Grassroots consciousness-raising. Working ourselves to the bone until the last possible second — and all the while, remaining certain that things could not possibly end with Ronald Reagan sitting in the White House. And yet, he won. Then, when I was not much older than you and pursuing my PhD at Columbia, he campaigned for re-election and…”

Kolivan sighs, somewhat more heatedly this time but no less tired. “So, I appreciate the need for hope. But personally, Keith? I watched Nixon, Reagan, and the first George Bush win the White House when I wanted to believe that no one would allow for that to happen. I have seen fellow queer men help elect a man who, along with his entire administration, actively _wanted_ the AIDS Crisis to eradicate us all, and to vote him in for a second term. I have no illusions about the current sociopolitical climate in this country and where Donald Trump fits into it. Thus, I cannot and _will not_ celebrate his defeat until he has truly been defeated.”

“That’s pretty much what I was telling Regris just now. Before you called him out on bringing the champagne. Different specifics, but…”

Staring at Kolivan’s refrigerator — at the photographs of him and Antok in various places (spanning at least twenty of the years they’ve spent together), the sheet of Letter-sized paper listing the dates of this semester’s myriad department and committee meetings, the grocery list pinned up with a magnet that has the cover of Wham!’s “Last Christmas” single printed on it — Keith doesn’t want to be too cynical. He squeezes his own elbow as if this might somehow ground him better. As if he’ll find the wherewithal to pretend that he has any hope for the rest of the night. For how this election will turn out, when all is said and done. For how so many other American creatures might or might not have voted, and what that could or couldn’t mean for the future of the nation’s court system, the Supreme Court vacancy, all the dangerous but as yet hypothetical ways that laws could get overturned or passed through a Republican Congress, and handed off to a Republican President, who clearly has no shame and no regard for human life…

Maybe feigning hope could count as lying, if you squint a little. Goddamn, though, Kolivan’s already going slack. His shoulders already sag like he’s bearing the weight not just of the world that they’re standing on, but also of the entire Milky Way galaxy. A spark of _something_ wriggles around inside Keith’s lungs, trying to set him on fire and squealing that he needs to come up with _something_ that he can do for Kolivan. Something that could make any of this easier.

But all that Keith has in him is a shrug and a confession: “One of my old foster brothers got away with tormenting one of my only friends just for being friends with me. We were twelve; Bryce was eighteen. And people let him harass Heather about her alcoholic father. And about how, allegedly, she must’ve been a huge slut because obviously, she’d only hang out with me if she was putting out _for_ me. Never mind that she didn’t even like me that way, but?”

He shrugs. Blows on a stray clump of his bangs. “I was one of the only two people who stood up for Heather when Bryce and his idiot friends came for her. Because everybody else looked at the situation and either went, ‘No big deal, boys will be boys’ or, ‘Let someone else do something, it’s not my fucking problem.’ Basically the same shit that people have been saying about unchecked police violence and the resurgence of white supremacist rallies, just… It was based in _misogyny_ , and it happened on a smaller scale.”

Shoving his hair off his forehead, Keith huffs. “So, I’m not really holding out hope for a country full of people who think like that? To pull their heads out of their rectums and _not_ elect that blustering bucket of spray-tanned hagfish slime and rotting, maggot-infested pig intestine.”

Kolivan hums. Considers this story and decides, “You are leaving out something that is of great import to you.”

Nodding, Keith chokes down a sigh, lest he come out sounding petulant. “I already told Regris about the person I lost before I left Chicago,” he says. “Didn’t get too detailed, but? It was more than enough for one night. I’d rather not go through it again. The most important point is: what happened to him? To the guy I lost? Doesn’t make me have much faith in people to do _anything_ about a problem like Trump.”

Kolivan goes quiet in a way that lets Keith believe that he’s getting the last word tonight.

Then, Kolivan’s heavy hand lands on his shoulder. “Someday, Keith, I hope that you might trust me with the whole story.”

“Maybe I will,” Keith’s mouth spits out for him. “Maybe I won’t. I don’t know how things’ll shake out.”

“Nor do I.” Kolivan gives him a firm, almost reassuring pat. “For now, let’s focus on the most currently pressing problem. Come morning, we may find ourselves with a great deal of trouble and even more work to see done.”

*** * ***

As the initial results start coming in, Keith likes to think that he’s succeeded in keeping his promise to behave himself.

He hasn’t picked any fights, no matter how stupid or inane he’s found anybody’s commentary. He hasn’t taken any of the maybe-bait that Prorok’s thrown his way about how little sense it makes for Keith to vote liberal when he’s so insistently self-sufficient and how an attitude like his wouldn’t be entirely out of place at a meeting of the campus Young Republicans. He hasn’t hogged Rufus for himself, no matter how much Keith prefers spoiling that skinny, floppy mess of fur and affection to dealing with most other human beings.

But flopping onto the loveseat beside Allura and Shay — the former of whom is currently sitting half-draped across her girlfriend’s lap — puts Keith directly opposite the sofa filled with Regris, Antok (who is eating the Galran dumplings off an appetizer plate), Regris (who may not be hugging Keith, but definitely looks like he wishes that he were), and Dr. Ryner from the university’s creative writing department (who smiles beatifically, blinking at Keith from behind her oversized glasses in a way that makes him wonder why she wants to put him under a microscope when he hasn’t taken a creative writing course since last year and it wasn’t one of hers).

Ilun and Vreck sit on two of the folding chairs that Keith set up earlier. Broad-shouldered, wide, and soft with pudge around the edges, Prorok fills up the majority of an armchair and sits with his legs splayed wide in the exact way that Allura hates Keith doing (though he still doesn’t get why she insists on calling it, “man-spreading” when he’s seen ladies who sit like this, too). Opting to sit on the floor, leaning against the sofa’s armrest and bumping his knees against the coffee-table, Thace sips a can of Diet Coke. The face he’s pulling at the TV is inscrutable as ever — all tight-lipped and narrow-eyed, looking like he’s lost in thought about something that might or might not be relevant to the goings-on tonight — and even though Thace doesn’t radiate any kind of negativity, Keith can see why someone might accuse him of doing so.

Unfortunately for Thace, he’s sitting beside Antok, who chuckles and flicks him on the back of the head.

“Shouldn’t look so glum, Thace.” Antok grins broadly, and God, looking at the glimmer of optimism on his face makes Keith want to scream. “Or are you just being a grump because your husband couldn’t make it.”

“Ulaz _could_ have made it, Antok. He chose _not_ to attend. There is a significant difference. If you would kindly—”

Antok cuts Thace off with a sharp, high-pitched whistle, and Thace sighs as if he knows exactly what’s coming. A little prodding and baby-talk from Antok sends Rufus right over into Thace’s lap, which makes him cringe. Not that Thace _dislikes_ Rufus, or at least Keith doesn’t think he does? But he _does_ explicitly prefer cats to dogs, and getting pounced by a fifty-some-odd-pound mess of fur and love and energy? Is probably not very high on the list of things that Thace wanted to do with his evening.

Tilting his head back obligingly, Thace lets Rufus lick all over his neck. Unruffled as the little guy showers him in kisses, he explains, “Ulaz decided _not_ to make an appearance tonight because so many of his _patients_ have been so worried about the potential outcome tonight. I can hardly fault any of them for that. But he said that he would prefer to be available for anyone who might need to make use of his emergency contact line.”

“Good of him to look out for his patients like that,” Prorok concedes, despite a history of being somewhat less than kind whenever Thace has brought his husband to any department parties. “Not that their fears are going to end up coming true — I mean, how _could_ they?”

Antok snorts borderline affectionately. “Says the token Republican.”

Prorok shrugs his broad shoulders, somewhat less bothered by that statement than Keith would’ve guessed he might be. “Just because I normally take the GOP’s side doesn’t mean that I can stand by and support them on this. His values and ideals are not my values and ideals. He doesn’t support a conservatism that I believe in, or stand for an America that I want to see. That my party even nominated this buffoon over an infinitely superior candidate like Kasich…”

Heaving a bone-deep sigh, Prorok shakes his head. “They’re catering to a pestilence of the worst, Far Right extremists. As a lifelong Republican, Antok? I cannot, did not, and will not support such an atrocity against the American people.”

“Mmm, keep associating with the wrong types and we might make a leftist out of you yet,” Antok says as Rufus pads away from Thace to put his head up in Keith’s lap. “You’re already closer to a centrist than you like admitting. Just give it some time.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Thace hisses at Antok to shush, then points toward the TV.

More and more red splotches are cropping up amidst the blue.

Beside Keith, Allura inhales sharply and nestles closer to Shay’s soft, expansive chest. This has the side-effect of her absentmindedly batting her feet against Keith’s thigh, but Rufus minds this more than he does. At that, Rufus simply shifts his head onto the knee that Allura isn’t low-key kicking. Letting his knees fall open, Keith tries not to spread them too far apart, just enough so Rufus can get his paws up on the cushion, stick his face in close to Keith’s face, and be in a much better position for Keith to rub down his body and ruffle his fur. This earns Keith arched eyebrows from Vreck and Prorok both, as if they’re both so high on their fondness for cats that they can’t understand the concept of someone else getting along with a dog.

Well, more affection for Keith, then. As the televised map gets redder and the air in the living room thickens with dread, Keith needs this round of petting as much as Rufus does. Maybe neither of them always follows what’s going on in social situations such as these — but they can pick up on the feelings, and this overwhelms them all too easily.

“You’re gonna be fine, little guy,” Keith promises, scratching behind Rufus’s ears during a commercial break. Maybe the rest of the world will go to shit — but as a dog, Rufus doesn’t need to deal with that. “You’ll be okay.”

“You _saw_ what the results look like, Keith,” Prorok points out, not quite snapping and not quite drawling. “How will _any_ of us be okay.”

“Fatalism such as that helps no one, Prorok,” says Kolivan, sipping a mug of tea in the other armchair. “No matter how terrible the results of this election are? We must persist, must believe that the work we do can make a difference. In times such as these, patience and resilience become necessities.”

 _Yeah, and patience allegedly yields focus_ , Keith keeps to himself, leaning his head back so Rufus can lick his jaw. _But believing in that maxim didn’t really help Shiro any. Why can’t, “Getting shit done and changing things right flipping now” be a virtue instead of fucking_ ** _patience_** _?_

“Most States’ electorates haven’t officially called yet,” Antok offers, resting his cheek in his palm and slouching more than Keith has ever seen him slouch. “Several of the key swing-states are still in-play… California’s obviously in the bag—”

“I don’t know how much I can hope, based on the turn that things have taken.” Dropping her head onto Shay’s shoulder, Allura sighs so morosely that Keith pauses in petting Rufus. He caresses her knee, squeezes gently — but Allura doesn’t even have it in her to smile. “Thank you for trying, _unelinde_. But I fear that we are all in very grave, very real danger.”

 _I’ve been saying that since the beginning_ , Keith doesn’t say because it isn’t helpful. This isn’t the time for an _“I told you so.”_

After a while — long enough for a few States to officially declare for Trump and Rufus to climb all the way up into Keith’s lap — Regris shoots a hand into the air and waves it around like he’s sitting in the back row of a lecture hall. He’s bright-eyed, but making a squirrely expression, like he’s only two seconds from darting down a corridor and literally hiding himself away in a closet. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, but still, Keith kind of understands the impulse. He wouldn’t do it himself — he can barely handle digging through the closet in his apartment, and it isn’t even _that_ horribly cramped — but if a Trump presidency were the killer in a slasher movie, Keith could definitely be tempted to hide in Kolivan and Antok’s master bedroom.

With a quirk of his shoulders and a wave of his hand, Kolivan bids Regris to get on with whatever’s on his mind.

“Look, I know we all have classes or meetings to be at in the morning, but?” Sighing wearily, Regris tucks a loose, blue-black curl behind one of his ears. “Considering how things are shaking out? I think we have sufficient reason to break the ‘dry gathering’ rule and get into some vodka. Or better yet, some nunvil.”

Regris is one of the only non-Alteans Keith knows who even remotely enjoys nunvil. Normally, Keith can hardly stomach the slightly tangy, sweet-but-spicy taste. He can only get through it because more than anything else he’s ever drank or taken, nunvil will get a person well and truly _wrecked_. It hits Keith’s brain harder and faster than the most potent vodka, whisky, or tequila, and it doesn’t have the itchy, nauseated feeling that came the one time that he tried Shiro’s Vicodin. Sure, nunvil is more than slightly rank, but the aftertaste always peters out after a while. Besides, Keith usually gets so drunk on nunvil that he can’t taste much of anything. As difficult as drinking nunvil can be, Keith could support Regris’s desire to start passing around a handle of that pungent, nauseating schnapps.

Not that this matters, at the moment. As the commercials end and the reddening map crops up on the screen again, Kolivan narrows his eyes at Regris. He kneads his temple in palpable exasperation and Keith can see the vein pulsing in his advisor’s forehead.

“This gathering is not dry because of what we might do in the morning,” Kolivan explains, in the flat, no-nonsense tone of voice that he only breaks out when he’s particularly irritated. “I have made this gathering dry out of respect for one of our guests.”

Glaring at Regris over the rims of his glasses, Kolivan huffs. “Respect that you will _honor_ by not asking me to identify them.”

Although Regris nods in understanding and mimes zipping his lips, Rufus whines down in Keith’s lap. Patting and rubbing at his side makes him sigh as if he might be fine. But as the commentators report another state declaring for Trump, Rufus groans — and God, Keith feels for him. Keith understands what’s going on. He can watch the news reports and make sense of the maps, no matter how much the knowledge makes his skin crawl. Looking around at a room of increasingly pallid, crestfallen faces, Keith knows why everyone’s upset, even if it’s garbage that his brain makes him turn into a mess of anxiety-riddled knots over _their_ feelings.

But Rufus doesn’t even have that kind of grounding. Ruffling the fur on the back of his neck, Keith sighs.

“Hey, Kolivan?” He waits for his advisor to look his way. “Where’s the little guy’s L-E-A-S-H? It’s been a while since he went outside, right?”

Kolivan nods in understanding and points Keith to one of the kitchen counters. “Take some bags and paper towels with you, just in case.”

Which could honestly be well enough to leave alone. Keith gets Rufus leashes up in relative silence and he certainly thinks that he’ll get outside without needing to endure any attempts at acting like a normal, functioning human person. But once he has his sneakers and his jacket on, Kolivan beckons him over to the arm-chair. Even though the diversion makes Rufus whine more loudly than before — even though he dances around Keith’s legs so impatiently that Keith can feel his heart sinking into a quicksand pit of guilt — Keith answers the call. He leans down close to Kolivan as well, since he might want to put up some illusion of privacy.

“His favorite park is a few blocks south of here,” Kolivan whispers with a gentleness that most people don’t believe he’s capable of. “If you need to take some air for yourself as well? Consider this my permission to do so.”

*** * ***

Being a smart dog, Rufus knows which way to drag Keith, once they hit the sidewalk. Heading to his park, they only get held up by the crosswalk signals, and Rufus deciding to hold up, sniff a tree, and then lift his leg. Aside from that stop to piss, Rufus spends the whole walk over either trotting like he can’t get to the park fast enough, or sighing and pressing himself against Keith’s calves as if to say, _“I trusted you, human. How can you make me wait for the light to change.”_

At least he perks up while they wander around the park’s winding paths. Maybe Keith breathes a bit more easily than he did inside, but he can’t steady his nerves. Can’t shake off the feeling like he might be sick in a bush if he isn’t careful. Can’t entirely get his head around what the fuck is happening, even though he knew that things would almost definitely play out this way. Trying to think about how tonight has gone so far, Keith flinches and inhales sharply. If he had an army of evil gnomes pent up inside his skull, digging at his brain with tiny, evil pickaxes, that would no doubt hurt so much less than the headache that’s building up inside him, now.

Unperturbed by what America’s humans have wrought on themselves and on the world — never mind caring a whit about how Keith feels — a cold wind rustles through Keith’s hair. God, there’s too much of it brushing against the back of his neck, these days. He should probably suck it up and ask Coran to please give him a trim, one day after they’re both out of classes and meetings. Coran’s offered before, and if Keith went up to the townhouse, he’d get out of worrying what to do about dinner, for the night.

On the other hand, though, it was probably bad enough that Keith asked Coran not to tell Allura where his new apartment is, when he filed the paperwork to update the official address listed in his student records. Keith’s still carrying around the guilt for how he insisted on moving his stuff down to his new place on his own. Then, there was how he had Shay drop him off several blocks away from his actual building, after they and Allura made a trip out to CostCo, back at the end of August. Keith had to pilfer an already-misplaced shopping cart to get everything back to his place. When he tried to drag everything upstairs, he resigned himself to multiple trips, but Rolo and Nyma, his new neighbors, inexplicably invited themselves to help him out. They put Keith on the spot, left him grasping for any excuse to get out of accepting their offer.

All he could come up with? Was the fact that Rolo has a missing leg. But he was steadier on his prosthetic than Keith felt on the legs that he was born with and grew into naturally. Besides, it would’ve been a dick move to cite that as a reason why Rolo and Nyma didn’t need to help him out, so Keith shut up about how he had things handled just fine on his own. He would’ve done, probably, if not for his neighbors trying so hard to be nice to him. Except they couldn’t just leave well enough alone and let Keith fend for himself. They had to make him impose, had to make a burden out of him.

Now, he’s brought Rufus outside as a glorified excuse to get away from the tension of watching the world go to Hell. As if Keith needed more proof that he’s been inflicting his bullshit on people — and sometimes a dog — far too often, lately.

Either way, he’s out and about already, wandering through the park and blissfully losing track of time. So, there’s really no sense in going back to Kolivan and Antok’s until Keith feels like he can be around other humans without kinda wanting to go jump off a bridge. He’ll need to save up enough energy to walk back, though, so after a while, he sits down beneath a winter-barren oak tree and slouches against its trunk. Rufus makes a throaty, not-quite-whining sound at this change of pace, which almost gets Keith back to his feet. Almost sends him back to walking.

Before he can make a move, though, Rufus licks at his cheek as if asking whether or not Keith’s okay.

“I’ll be fine, little guy.” Shushing gently, he scratches and musses his hands along Rufus’s sides. “I always pull through. I’ll be okay.”

Keith doesn’t know how much he believes that — but if nothing else can fix him or his garbage non-problems? In lieu of an actual solution, he’s been significantly other-than-fine for so long that unwellness of a Trump presidency shouldn’t even register. As long as he can be there for other people and make some kind of positive difference for everyone else, for any of the people who actually have a shot at happiness or good lives? Then Keith can get through anything that reality throws at him.

Right now, as long as he can keep Rufus more or less comfortable and content, nothing else much matters.

“I’m sorry for all of this, buddy,” Keith whispers when Rufus decides to lay down on his side, pillowing his head in Keith’s lap. Rubbing at his exposed belly, Keith can’t help sighing. “God, you deserve so much better than this. You can’t even understand what’s going on, but you’ve still got to deal with everybody else’s stress. How the Hell is that fair.”

It isn’t fair. There’s no question about that in Keith’s mind. For his own part, Rufus sighs as if he wouldn’t mind moving on to literally any other topic. Which would probably work out fine, if Keith could think of anything else to talk about. As he keeps stroking up and down Rufus’s reedy body and his long, soft fur, all Keith has is a big, gaping blank space where his brain should be and an inexplicable feeling like the sound of popping bubble-wrap. Deep breaths lead to a seemingly endless supply of sighs. But the only words that come to mind are questions that Keith can’t let himself unload on Rufus. It’s hard enough for human beings with advanced degrees in history and sociology and political science to come up with explanations for the issues Keith could raise — so, really, it wouldn’t be fair to ask a dog.

“ _And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts_ ,” Keith whispers into the wind before he even realizes that the words are pricking up along his tongue. “ _And I looked and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was Death. And Hell followed with him._ ”

Somewhere back in Texas, there’s an old shit-hole foster family of Keith’s who might check the sky for flying pigs or raining frogs, if they could hear him now. Hell, the simple fact that Keith hasn’t gotten himself killed yet might make them run for some doomsday-prepper bunker. Hearing him go on like this might make them all drop dead from sheer shock. Because they would make the mistake of thinking that their possibly demonically possessed, delinquent former ward is actually quoting the Book of Revelation on purpose. As he leans his head back against the tree and ruffles Rufus’s fur, though, Keith manages to mentally summon up the Johnny Cash tune that he wants.

“ _There’s a man goin’ ‘round, takin’ names_ ,” he recites, scratching gently behind Rufus’s ears. “ _And he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won’t be treated all the same. There’ll be a golden ladder reaching down, when The Man comes around._ ”

Rufus nuzzles at Keith’s thigh and Keith can’t tell what that’s supposed to mean. But even as he lets himself sing the good old refrain, he keeps his voice soft enough that, hopefully, only Rufus can make it out: “ _Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singing. Multitudes are marching to the big kettle drum. Voices callin’, voices cryin’. Some are born and some are dyin’. It’s Alpha and Omega’s Kingdom come. And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree—_ ”

“I mean, God, is it weird to say that I’m relieved?”

A voice makes Keith’s ears prick up. Makes the song die off behind his Adam’s apple and derails the tune inside his head. At least it’s a nice voice. Deep and clear and smooth, neither too close to him nor too far away. Furrowing his brow, Keith tries to listen for any footsteps, any sense of where the voice is coming from, or where it’s heading, or why it makes him feel _so sure_ that he can smell artificial cherry flavoring and something prickly, sickeningly sweet and slightly spicy but in a different way than nunvil. He inhales sharply and the breath catches in his throat. Jesus Christ, he’s going crazy. There’s nothing in Keith’s vicinity that should smell even remotely like either of the scents that his broken brain thinks he’s picking up.

Yanking his sweatshirt over his nose, he sniffs at the fabric. Tries to ground himself in the smells that are _real_ and _here right now_.

The voice explains to whomever they’re speaking, “Like, okay. Slipping up was not great. I hated it. I’m still mad at myself about doing it when I was _so close_ to getting that one-year chip, finally? But…” A heavy sigh. “I’m relieved I got it over with before tonight, I guess?”

Down in Keith’s lap, Rufus huffs at him as if asking what Keith thinks he’s doing.

As he rubs his knuckles down the back of Rufus’s neck, though, Keith listens to a second, deeper, gruffer voice saying, “That might or might not be weird, son. I can’t really say unless you want to tell me what you’re thinking about it all.”

“If I’d slipped up and had a drink tonight? Or, worse, found someone who’d sell me pills? I’d have blamed everything on the election results.” The first voice inhales deeply but doesn’t let out another sigh. “No, falling off the wagon again was not one of my better moments. But at least I made that choice _before_ tonight. When I couldn’t run from addressing any of the reasons _why_ I let that happen. _Why_ I let myself do that.”

Oh, Lord — these people are talking about sobriety. Keith still can’t pick out where they’re going, where they’re coming from, or how close they are. But as he shuts his eyes and tilts his head back against the tree, he can’t shake off this feeling, whatever it is. His stomach recoils like he’s gotten sucker-punched. He fights to keep breathing, as if there’s a huge, invisible hand clamping down around his windpipe. And something hot, and sick, and _guilty_ slithers through his chest, tightening itself around his lungs, until it wouldn’t matter if Keith could catch his breath. The air would go into him and get stuck. Because his lungs wouldn’t take it.

Fine, he shouldn’t be listening to a conversation that’s obviously meant to be relatively private. This feels like something different, though. As if there’s something more and bigger going on inside of him, even though that makes no sense because why would there be.

“Anyway,” says the first voice, “I’m still glad that David and Miranda already planned on hosting an extra meeting tomorrow.”

“Feeling a craving?” The second voice isn’t judging and the sympathy sounds so genuine, it feels like somebody’s digging ten-inch talons into Keith’s chest. “It’s alright if you are. Better to admit to that and deal with it.”

“I’m more glad for everyone else who might need the extra meeting. I mean, I’m planning to be there anyway—”

“Not to interrupt, dear boy,” a third voice chimes in. This one isn’t quite so deep as the others and something about it makes Keith think of a nice breeze in early summer. “But I suspect that my better half might soon need to protest that you are not answering his real question.”

“I know, it’s just…” Trailing off into a pensive huff, the first voice takes a moment. “This definitely feels weird, to me? Not that I’m arguing with it, but… I _don’t_ have any cravings, right now. For the past two weeks, I’ve thought that I would, for sure. It’s been all kinds of, ‘If Trump wins, I am going to be a mess. I’m going to be neck-deep in cravings. I’ll probably slip up again.’”

“Nothing wrong with _not_ craving, son,” offers the second voice.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m not complaining.” Another moment’s pause, probably spent thinking things over. “If anything? This is making me feel galvanized. Extra-motivated _not_ to use, y’know?” The first voice sighs, and it’s like sandpaper for Keith’s nerves. For one thing, he shouldn’t be hearing this in the first place. More pressingly, though, they sound so much like— “Like, I don’t know how I’ll feel in the morning? But right now, I want to be at tomorrow’s extra meeting because so many other people at group are probably gonna need the support.”

The second voice hums. “But you _do_ remember that you can ask for someone to support you, right?”

“Yes, Mitch, I do. But you, and Robin, and David, and Miranda, and everyone at group? You’ve all seen me through so much. Right now, since I feel okay? I want to be there for someone else. In the same way that y’all have done for me.” A deep breath and Keith almost thanks God for the fact that it doesn’t end in a sigh. “I mean, right now, this second? I’ve got people to check in on who _aren’t_ in our group. Hunk, Lance, Katie, and Matt are all with each other. I think Plaxum, Lance’s ex, is there too—”

The second voice doesn’t say anything, but they grumble in a way that makes the first and third voices laugh. It’s only slight laughter, but it’s more than Keith would expect to hear while the world is going straight to fucking white supremacist, non-consensual pussy-grabbing Hell.

“So, the band and our resident techie don’t need me right now,” the first voice goes on. “But up at a certain place? Sven might not be so bad. But Slav is gonna be entirely himself, and if I know anything about my little brother? Anxiety spiral Hell.”

“You want me to look in on him instead, son? You and his roommate can be…” The second voice makes a throaty, wishy-washy sound.

“Tonight of all nights? I think Slav might not be that bad to deal with. He’ll be a disaster, but so will most people.”

“He could be infinitely worse than usual,” the third voice points out. “At least, based on what I’ve heard of him.”

“Yeah, well, aside from Acxa? I don’t always get on with Lotor’s friends, either.” The first voice makes a noise like the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “But I’m still going over to their place before I head home tonight. Or I might sleep over with him. Depends on how badly off he is—”

“Babysitting your boyfriend _is not_ your responsibility—”

“No, Mitch, I know. I’m not trying to do that to him, right now. It’s just…” Yet another sigh. Keith worries his hand over Rufus’s belly. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He shouldn’t be listening to this and thinking that the first voice sounds so much like— “Aside from the fact that I love him? He’s going to be looking at these results, and he’s going to feel like his Father was right after all. Like his Father is winning, and like all we’ve done for the past several months was completely pointless. He’s going to feel like everything in the world is a bunch of hopeless garbage. And I can’t leave him in a state like that, Mitch. Even if I didn’t love him, it’s…”

The first voice makes another noise, discontented but hopeful. “Part of being a _community_ of support? Means that we need to be there for each other. I feel stable, right now. I feel like I’m in a good place, even though everything is going to Hell. I know I’ve only been back on the wagon for a couple weeks, but… I _can_ offer support to other people. So, I want to be the version of myself who _does_.”

Silence, relative to the city’s usual volume, and then the second voice says, “God, I’m so proud of you, son. You’ve come so far—”

“Oh my God, Mitch, no, come on—”

“No, no, stow it. None of that. I’m proud of you.” The second voice sounds like they mean it, and Keith hates the little twist of envy that flares up in his chest. “You’re doing so well. You’ve come so far from where you were when I first met you—”

“Mitch, _please_. You’re gonna make me get choked up—”

“Well, you deserve to hear someone appreciating how much you’ve accomplished, son.”

“I wouldn’t suggest fighting him too strenuously, dear boy. You know how he gets. He won’t relent about this, not even if you ask him nicely.”

The sighing sounds like it’s coming from a pair of people, this time. Then, the second voice bids the one he’s been calling “son” to go check up on their younger brother and their boyfriend, to take care of themself, and to call the second voice and someone called Robin, if the first voice needs anything. Eyes still closed, Keith inhales deeply. He holds his breath and sits perfectly still, as if he can make himself disappear. Blessedly, a single set of footsteps darts away without stopping anywhere near him.

Two more sets of footsteps come closer to his direction, though. Rufus’s tags jingle against each other as he picks up his head. Then, he sighs and nuzzles at Keith. For once, Rufus has actual intent behind that rubbing. Keith can’t tell what it is, exactly, but the little guy clearly wants him to do _something_. The imploring whine he gives Keith confirms as much. But what he’s getting at makes no sense until—

“Keith,” says the second voice, somewhere above him. And up close like this, he _recognizes_ who this is.

Sighing, Keith cracks his eyes open and blinks up at Dr. Iverson from the university’s physics department, with his missing eye that’s long since scarred over. Getting found here by Iverson would be bad enough on its own. But there’s another man here with him, likely the source of one of the other two voices. Beneath the faint lights around them, Keith can make out that this guy is only slightly shorter than Iverson. His jaw is kind of square, his skin seems dark and ruddy, and he wears his black hair in a ponytail.

Noticing that Keith is staring, Iverson clears his throat. “My husband, Bennett Martínez. _Corazón_ , this is Keith Kogane, Kolivan’s advisee. He was in a class of mine, a few years back—”

“Ohhh, is he the Keith who…” Bennett trails off and purses his lips as if he can’t find a diplomatic way to phrase what he’s thinking. “I assume that you are the _infamous_ Keith Kogane, then?”

“If that’s a polite way of saying that I’m a godawful nightmare to have in class and I drove your husband crazy? Then, sure, I’m the infamous Keith.” Huffing softly, Keith pushes his bangs out of his eyes. Why should he call himself anything _but_ a nightmare? He went out of his way to be one for Iverson. That said, Keith should probably add on something a little less off-putting. But as he opens his mouth—

“So, what brings you out here tonight?” Arching the brow over his bad eye, Iverson glances at Keith’s lap. “And why do you have Kolivan’s dog?”

Keith shrugs. “Both of us started having emotionally allergic reactions to the election results. We went for a walk.”

“Is that so,” Iverson drawls. “Well, why don’t we walk you _back_ to Kolivan and Antok’s before it gets too late.”

This doesn’t necessarily strike Keith as the best idea. It doesn’t strike him as what he really wants to do, yet. But he hands Rufus’s leash to Dr. Iverson as he pries himself up off the ground. Even the idea of arguing with Iverson leaves a bad taste in Keith’s mouth right now, on the heels of overhearing a discussion that he probably wanted to keep between himself, his husband, and whoever the “dear boy” they were talking to happens to be. As Keith and Rufus lead the way back to Kolivan and Antok’s place, Keith can’t rid himself of these nagging, horrid thoughts of Shiro.

Maybe it’s selfish, thinking about Shiro because of someone else’s struggles. But if he’s still alive somewhere, then Keith hopes that Shiro’s doing even half as okay as Iverson’s “dear boy” seems to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t _need_ coping skills, I have country music” — Keith, probably.
> 
> No, but really, if he didn’t sing Johnny Cash’s “[The Man Comes Around](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzh3x_Z6HIs)” because it feels, to Keith, like the world is ending? Then, he would’ve sung something loaded with Shiro Feels. Some of the candidates I considered were: “[Here You Come Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bflkeWVTNk0)” by Dolly Parton; “[Vincent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22WmFJYFstM)” by Don McLean; “[I Still Miss Someone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iGV3tGTR9_Y)” by Johnny Cash; “[Heretic Pride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZ6O7Jk4MXs)” by The Mountain Goats; “[Here Without You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlDInVqv8cs)” by Three Doors Down; or “[This Year](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eetIgGXH6DA)” which is also by The Mountain Goats.


	9. Friday, August 18th, 2017

Ryou is in the Golden Tree men’s room, more than taking his time, when Acxa’s text comes in.

For several moments, Shiro can only blink at his phone, uncertain which of his feelings is clobbering him the hardest. Too many of them coming in simultaneously… Too many of those emotions disagreeing with each other… Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Shiro makes himself take slow, deep breaths. Tries to focus on the good things about today, about this entire past week, rather than focusing on the unfortunate anniversary that made Shiro ask Ryou to get dinner with him in the first place… At least they’re together for this. Shiro’s even alive to receive warnings from Acxa, and Ryou—

“God, sorry that took so long, _niichan_. Slav called, I had to take it.”

Opposite Shiro, Ryou’s chair scrapes along the diner’s tile floor. He drops into his seat — but the warm, fond smile falters as he blinks at Shiro. Not into disappointment or outright worry, but by Ryou standards? And when he _was_ looking pretty happy, not five seconds ago? Shiro’s heart squirms guiltily against his rib-cage over this shift in Ryou’s expression.

With a gentle sigh, Ryou nudges his foot at Shiro’s ankle. “What’s up?”

 _The sky_ , Shiro doesn’t let himself snark. _Airplanes. Astronauts. Superman, one presumes._

But because this is a serious question, Shiro lets his shoulders droop and looks Ryou in the eye. “Can you come to our show tomorrow night? Please?” Combing his fingers through his white fringe, Shiro waits for a round of questions that doesn’t come. “I mean, it’s okay if you have plans—”

“I don’t. But can’t help noticing…” Ryou pushes his glasses up. “You didn’t give me an answer.”

By way of initially kicking the door in on this admission, Shiro slides his phone across the table. Resting his cheek on his palm, watches Ryou key in his passcode, 032306. March 23rd 2006, their Grandfather Takashi’s death-day.

Even if Ryou didn’t know the code that Shiro uses to lock his phone — even if Shiro hadn’t shared that information with him willingly — then he could guess it on his own. Of course it would be an emotionally significant date, but not something quite as obvious as their birthday. Given that Shiro has yet to shake a nearly-lifelong fixation on death, Ryou would likely narrow the choices down to the days that they lost Shiro’s personal-namesake, Grandmother Murasaki, or their parents. But Mom and Dad’s death-day still hurts too much sometimes, which would lead Ryou to rule it out more easily. Then, while Shiro loved both of their paternal grandparents, he gives so much more thought to the one he was named after. Which rather tends to happen, when you spend your entire life carrying an unavoidable reminder of someone around with you, everywhere you go.

Maybe Shiro continues having things to work on, but making steps must count for something. Besides, if he ever _stops_ being a work-in-progress, that could lead to him stagnating. Given his personal precedents, stagnation could be even worse for Shiro than backsliding outright.

So, the situation at-hand is far from ideal — but Shiro’s handling it without letting himself fall to pieces, like he would’ve done at this time, last year. Sharing the texts themselves constitutes movement in the right direction, he’s fairly certain. He’s being honest about what’s happening, while allowing Ryou to draw his own conclusions based on the available evidence. Considering how many times Shiro’s ever tailored the details of a story, letting Ryou have this chance. Still, as Ryou pokes at the texts, an impulse flares up in Shiro’s chest.

“Lotor’s planning to come tomorrow night,” he explains. “Apparently, he made insinuations to Narti. Who, in turn, told Ezor that she had suspicions. Then, Ezor took it upon herself to tell Acxa. Who is out of town on a long weekend with Zethrid, and therefore cannot intervene to stop her best friend from doing stupid things—”

“Which is probably why Lotor decided to come around for _this_ show, in the first place.” Rolling his eyes at Shiro’s phone, Ryou slouches and rubs at one of his temples. “Permission to say something that you might not like hearing?”

“Pretty sure I can guess what it is, but… Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

“Aside from Lotor being hot? I honestly have _no idea_ what you ever saw in your ex.”

“Mmm, I was a little off in the exact wording, but? Well done, us. With the twin-think and—”

“I’m being serious, Kashi. Which is why I _asked_ before just saying that.”

“Sometimes, I don’t know what I saw in him, either.” Even so, Shiro sighs as he rests his cheek in his palm. “But other times, I can’t forget about what I saw in him. Most of the time, though?” Shiro quirks his shoulders. “I’m in pain, thinking about all the pain that Lotor’s in and wishing that I could _help_. Y’know, wishing that he’d let me in, or let me help—”

“Yeah, right, I’m sure you came in like a goddamn wrecking ball, Miley. I’m sure you never hit so hard in love and everything,” Ryou deadpans, toeing at Shiro’s ankle again, as if trying to say that he isn’t annoyed or angry. “Honestly, though? It _isn’t_ like you just walked away from Lotor. You didn’t wake up one morning and go, ‘I know, I think I’ll call it off with my beloved boyfriend of four years, today.’ How many times did you two break up and get back together? How many times did you try to work things out?”

“More than I really want to put a number on, right now.”

“My point exactly. And I don’t know, would you be offended if I compared Lotor to Vicodin?”

“Not exactly. But I also don’t feel up to going down that rabbit hole, right now.” Shiro waits for Ryou to nod in understanding. Yes, he loves his brother fiercely — but he needs Ryou to be on the same page as him before saying, “I do want to dedicate tomorrow night’s punk cover of a non-punk song to him, if he’s gonna be there anyway. But ‘Wrecking Ball’ is so ten months ago.”

“I’d argue that it can never really be out of style with you and Lotor, considering what you two do to each other—”

“Please don’t. You’ll like the song that I really have in mind for tomorrow. D’you want to guess, or should I tell you?”

Pursing his lips, Ryou hums. “That ‘I Hate Everything About You’ song? It was really big when we were, like, thirteen?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Shiro groans, sticking out his tongue. “Matt liking that song doesn’t mean that I do.”

Ryou gives up a huff and a nod. “‘Tainted Love’? That was _your_ song with him, right?”

“One of many that we had, but…” Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Shiro explains, “Lotor would mistake that song for a romantic overture, instead of an attempted telling-off. Once upon a time, I thought his interpretation was sweet, but anymore—”

“Wait, ‘once upon a time’? And his given first name is _Prince_ …” Ryou lights up with a grin. “‘When Doves Cry.’ That’s what you’re planning.”

Allowing himself to slouch, Shiro slips so low that it starts to hurt his back. “ _Seriously_? I already feel bad enough for all the times I passive-aggressively weaponized that song against him. Why would I do it all over again, except onstage, in front of our fans?”

“I don’t know, something by the Mountain Goats? You and Lance would love that. What about that one I really don’t like—”

“You’re gonna need to get more specific, little brother. You and John Darnielle don’t get along.”

“You know, the one that’s like…” Ryou huffs, flicking his hand around in front of his face as he tries to remember the lyrics. “‘I hope you die. I hope we both die’? ‘I hope the worst isn’t over’? ‘You are coming down with me, something something, unlovable hands’?”

“Oh my _God_ , Lotor does not deserve to have ‘No Children’ dedicated to him. As bad as things ever got between us, they were never that bad.” As he looks Ryou in the eye, it takes everything Shiro has not to sigh and/or run to the men’s room with a mind to deliberately make himself sick. “‘No Children’ is one of my _Maurice_ songs, okay? That’s how grim that song is. And no matter how much you and Lotor dislike each other? He is not Maurice. He’s nowhere near that bad.”

“I judge their goodness on a scale of how bad they are for you personally, _niichan_. Which, from where I’m sitting? Makes Lotor and Maurice equally terrible.” Under the scrutiny of a _Look_ that is pointedly unimpressed, Ryou shrugs as if asking Shiro what he’d have his little brother do. “So, if none of those guesses was right, how about… _Well, it ain’t no lie, baby: bye, bye, bye_?”

“Nah. Last time I dedicated that to him, we wound up having sex at his place after the show.”

“Okay, what about…” Ryou grins, ever full of hope. “ _Bye bye, mein lieber herr. Farewell, mein lieber herr. It was a fine affair, but now it’s over_?”

“Lance and I have an agreement: he has dibs on lead vocals for any song from _Cabaret_.”

“Which is counterproductive for telling Lotor off, alright. God, is it weird that there are so many possibilities but I’m running out of ideas?”

“I could just tell you what the song is. Like I offered before you started guessing.”

“How about you give me a hint instead?”

“Fair enough.” That said, Shiro has to consider his options before deciding on which hint to drop: “ _So, he calls me up and he’s like, ‘I still love you.’ And I’m like, I’m just? I mean, this is_ ** _exhausting_** _, y’know? Like, we are_ ** _never_** _getting back together. Like…_ ** _ever_** _._ ”

“Wait, really?” Ryou splutters. “‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’? Kashi-niichan, _please_ tell me that you’re serious.”

“As serious as Lance gets about how jogging is allegedly the worst.”

“As well he should do. Because I appreciate that it helps you? But jogging _is_ the worst—”

“Awww, little brother,” Shiro needles, smirking. “Here, I thought you might change your mind just to pointlessly spite Lance.”

“Even a stopped clock — or your single most obnoxious friend, as in this case — is right twice a day.” With that out of his system, though, Ryou beams brightly enough to light up a ten-mile radius. He muffles it behind his hands, but the sound that escapes him is _definitely_ a squeal. “I can’t believe you’re actually dedicating that song to Lotor. Kashi, this is _amazing_.”

Chuckling softly, Shiro lets himself keep smiling. “If this song doesn’t get the point through his head, I don’t know what will.”

Which is as good a time as any for their dinner to show up. All smiles, their waitress brings over Ryou’s plate of a traditional Olkari beef casserole, and Shiro’s bowl of _nobah_ , the dish that Ryou only somewhat inaccurately describes as, _“Olkari ramen.”_

As always, Shiro pokes at his food before he can eat any of it. He pushes the long, thin, silvery noodles, the chicken and mixed vegetables, and their coating of light brown sauce around like the staff at Golden Tree might have done literally anything different with the recipe. They haven’t, which makes Shiro sigh in relief, even though his trust that his favorite meals will remain more or less unchanged is part of why he usually sticks to his internal list of Food Options That He Knows He Likes Eating.

Working on this tendency with Ulaz and Sophie has taken more time than Shiro enjoys. Yet, any progress counts. Even around this time last year — or Hell, even just six or seven months ago — Shiro would’ve had so much trouble willing himself to twist his fork up in the noodles and take a good bite of them without needing any chicken or vegetables in there. He would’ve given himself Hell for taking such a decent bite that only had the noodles, which are not unhealthy but Shiro’s brain and his disorder still sometimes think they are. Because they don’t have as much protein or minerals as the meat, or as many vitamins as the vegetables. Because the noodles have more carbs to them, and even though Shiro knows that carbohydrates are necessary for so many reasons, he periodically needs to remind himself of this fact. Needs to remember that he needs carbs for energy, at the very least, and mentally give himself permission to eat them.

Chewing slowly, Shiro focuses on the warmth that floods his mouth. On the heady, slightly sweet taste of the sauce. On the smooth texture of the noodles as he mushes his tongue through them. Once he swallows, Shiro wilts back onto his elbows and pokes at his dinner all over again. If only the first bite were the hardest, like the first cut allegedly being the deepest. Since Shiro first got handed an anorexia nervosa diagnosis back in rehab, he’s never been able to predict which part of any given meal will give him the most trouble. He wishes that he _could_ get such ideas, but Aunt Satomi’s dealt with her own eating disorder since before Mom and Dad got engaged. It’s been part of her life since before they even met each other. By her own admission, Aunt Satomi still gets caught off-guard by troubles that she doesn’t see coming. But speaking of Aunt Satomi—

“Have you, uh… I mean, not that you necessarily should have or shouldn’t have… And not that I’m trying to push for anything, but…” Starting this segue should be so much easier. But Shiro sinks deeper into his chair under the scrutiny of the _Look_ that Ryou gives him. He spears and chokes down a chunk of chicken before he can ask, “Have you talked to Aunt Satomi lately? Or Aunt Naoko? Kira? Tatsuya?”

Shiro’s insides squirm more than enough at the way Ryou shakes his head at Aunt Satomi’s name, her wife’s name, and their daughter’s name. But hearing their son’s name makes Ryou pull a hard, sour face and stick out the tip of his tongue. With a heavy sigh, Shiro rolls his eyes and lets himself slouch. He means to let his legs sprawl where they will — except Ryou’s still making that face like a six-year-old who can’t get out of choking down his broccoli. So, Shiro bumps his foot into his brother’s shin. Not hard enough to be a proper kick, not really. Only enough for Ryou to feel the impact.

Ryou waits for eye-contact, then blows a raspberry at him.

“ _Real_ mature, little brother,” Shiro huffs, twirling his fork around the noodles. “They teach you that in Adulthood 101?”

“Hey, I’m seven minutes younger than you. I’m _allowed_ to be childish.”

“You’re also twenty-seven years old and all but throwing a temper tantrum about a question that wasn’t meant to—”

“Well, you know my feelings on the situation with our idiot cousin and his stupid mouth.”

“You don’t even know what I most want to ask.”

“Mmm, if you’re expecting me to talk to Tatsuya about anything right now? Then I’m gonna guess that it’s something about making nice with him for his birthday.” When Shiro shakes his head at this suggestion, Ryou scrunches up his entire face. “Okay, I don’t feel like any more guessing games. What’s on your mind?”

Although there’s nothing casual about what Shiro’s bringing up, he quirks his shoulders as if it might take some of the edge off. As if he might steady his own nerves and convince himself that this conversation can go more easily, simply by pretending that everything’s cool and he has this handled perfectly fine. When this doesn’t work — when Shiro doesn’t feel any calmer or any more capable of doing what he likes — he sighs and scrubs at one of his eyes. He tries pouting at Ryou and throwing him a set of sad puppy eyes. All it earns Shiro is a shrug that seems to say, _“You started this, niichan. I’ll help you if you need it, but I’m pretty sure you don’t. Right now, you only need to focus.”_

As stressful as eating can still be, it helps Shiro settle himself, in this moment. Getting down another bite of dinner reminds him that he can get through this conversation. He survived so many near-overdoses that he doesn’t want to count them all and trying to take his own life. He got out of Chicago, got through rehab, and got back on the road to wellness. He has picked himself up from so many stumbles and learned to trust other people again, learned to trust himself more than he ever has. Like one of the new Fall Out Boy songs has said: if Shiro can live through that, then he can do anything.

If he can live through what he did with Maurice, then he can stomach looking Ryou in the eye and saying what he means.

“Aunt Satomi’s been asking me about Christmas,” Shiro says, poking at a slice of zucchini without picking it up. “Specifically, she’s been asking me about what we’re planning to do about Christmas. And whether or not we’re going to come to Rancho—”

“Since you’re bringing it up like this, I’m guessing that you want to go?”

“Of course I want to go. Yes, I had fun, going to Florida with Hunk and Lance. Aside from the parts where Lotor kept having meltdowns at three in the morning and needing me? And aside from the part where Carrie Fisher had that heart attack and St. George passed away on Christmas Day itself—”

“Maybe we should go back to Texas. Find Grandfather’s old church.” Ryou snickers, getting a good scoop of casserole on his spoon. “I’d pay good money to see how Sister Mary Ignatius reacts to you calling George Michael a _saint_.”

“He fills basically the same role as a patron saint for me, but that’s not the point.” Sighing softly, Shiro rests his cheek in his palm. “Yes, I liked going to Florida last year. But I really missed seeing _our_ blood family. I know you had reasons for not wanting to go—”

“Reasons that I took and still take very seriously. Considering that the well-being of my _only brother_ is involved—”

“And I appreciate that you care so much and that you want to protect me—”

“I shouldn’t need to protect you from our own family. The fact that Tatsuya forced my hand—”

“He didn’t _force_ you to do anything, Ryou. And you _know_ that—”

“Maybe he didn’t hold me down at gunpoint and threaten me out of coming, but his _actions_ still leave a lot to be desired.” Digging his spoon into his food, Ryou hunches in on himself. He gives Shiro a long _Look_ , equal parts tired and frustrated. “If I can get a _guarantee_ that Tatsuya won’t run his mouth in ways that could trigger you? Then, I will consider going—”

“Well, I’m _definitely_ going. Haven’t told Satomi so yet because I said I still had to talk to you, but—”

“But if Tatsuya _won’t_ watch his stupid mouth around you? If he won’t at least promise to _try harder_?” Ryou shrugs like he’s daring Shiro to come at him. With anyone else, he’d likely make that challenge outright. “If our idiot cousin can’t hold his tongue about your eating disorder, then I’m not going to Rancho for Christmas. And I wish that you wouldn’t, either.”

On the surface, most people likely wouldn’t find much about this statement that they could argue with. If not that, then they wouldn’t _want_ to argue with Ryou, either because they agree with him or because they understand his perspective so well that arguing seems cruel.

Shiro, however, has been with Ryou since before either of them was technically alive. Which gives him certain special privileges. For instance, the permanent tacit permission to stare at his slightly younger brother and let his eyes glaze over with how unimpressed he is. When Ryou gives him yet another shrug that silently begs Shiro to provide some alternate option that aligns well enough with what Ryou wants to hear and what he already wants to do, Shiro huffs and kicks him in the shin again. For all he goes harder this time, Shiro takes care not to cause Ryou any real pain. He doesn’t want to _hurt_ his brother, especially not when so many of his past screw-ups have done that more than enough already. Not when Ryou tries so hard to do right by him, even when he doesn’t always get what Shiro’s going through.

Still, Shiro allows himself a victory smirk when he makes Ryou whine and twist up his chubby face like a discontented kitten.

“I understand why Tatsuya upset you before,” Shiro says, slowly and carefully, looking Ryou dead in the eye. Anything that might reduce the chance of any mistakes cropping up between them. “But I want you to consider this from another point of view—”

“ _Okaaaaay,_ ** _fine_** ,” Ryou sighs. “As long as that point of view doesn’t involve giving him blanket, unearned forgiveness.”

On the plus, another flat, dead-eyed glare makes Ryou huff his way through an apology.

On the downside, though, as Shiro drags his hand back through his long, white fringe, he isn’t sure if he’s running too far afoul of that exact problem. Even if Ryou didn’t object to the idea, Shiro wouldn’t want to ask him to pretend that Tatsuya never screwed up. That wouldn’t be fair on either Ryou or their cousin, and as Ulaz pointed out in their session yesterday, it wouldn’t be fair on Shiro either. Or particularly good for his recovery.

But he’s already opened the door, so Shiro presses on, “Look, Tatsuya’s used to dealing with Aunt Satomi’s ED. Which, y’know, _makes sense_ , given that she’s his _Mom_. We overlap in some places, yes. But she and I have several different triggers, too. Expecting him to magically intuit what mine are—”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not entirely over him asking how you could even be anorexic in the first place, _niichan_.” Batting his foot into Shiro’s leg, Ryou huffs. “I mean, you rejected _two_ dietitians because they bought into that garbage like, ‘Oh, eating disorders are silly lady problems for girls and women. They don’t _happen_ to guys’—”

“Sure did, and I’d do it all over again. But Tatsuya _isn’t_ a dietitian. He’s _family_ —”

“Which should be all the more reason for him to _do better_ than that—”

“He _is_ doing better. Which you’d know if you would _talk_ to him.” Shiro chokes down a sigh like taking medicine that tastes horrible. Like trying to swallow artificial cherry-flavored anything without thinking about the _“cocktails”_ he used to make himself in Chicago, equal parts Cuervo and cherry-flavored liquid hydrocodone. “For a long while now, Tatsuya’s been over his old way of thinking that guys don’t get eating disorders. And he’s doing a lot better about respecting my triggers. Which you can’t hold him accountable for not knowing about before because I hadn’t _told him_ about most of them. It’s not fair.”

“Might not be _fair_ ,” Ryou says. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”

Giving his brother a flat, unimpressed glare, Shiro gets down another two bites of his dinner.

Which only makes Ryou shrug. “You’re a better person than I am, Kashi-niichan. I’ve accepted this for _years_.”

“I don’t care which of us is better at what or which. I know that _you_ are better than _this._ ”

“Mmm, I can be. When I’m in the mood to rise above my impulses. Or to make some kind of point. Or when there’s something that I stand to gain.” Rolling his eyes, Ryou gives Shiro the single most resigned-sounding huff that he has ever heard come out of anyone. Never mind hearing it come out of the brother who’s always encouraged him to keep fighting. “When the well-being of my favorite person — the most important person in my entire life — gets involved? Then I will cheat, and manipulate, and fight as dirty as possible. As long as it helps _you_.”

“And what if you fighting dirty is actually working _against_ my overall health, recovery, and well-being, hmm?”

“Don’t even joke like that, Kashi. It isn’t funny.”

“Who’s joking?” Mirroring what Ryou did for him earlier, Shiro quirks his shoulders as if begging his brother to come at him for a fight. “Your extended temper tantrum is keeping me from feeling like I can freely stay in contact with the rest of our living blood family, including Aunt Satomi. I don’t appreciate it.”

No, talking about this over dinner isn’t the best for Shiro’s willingness to eat. No, this isn’t where Shiro planned to take their conversation — but he also expected that Ryou might’ve gotten over this disagreement with Tatsuya by now. Since they’re getting into tense territory, Shiro would like to maintain a steely façade. He’d like to set his jaw and glare at Ryou, going cold until he relents and agrees to head to California for Christmas. He’d like to feel stronger than this, looking at his little brother, capable of making Ryou agree to do what he wants simply by making the right face and tapping his foot impatiently.

Yet, Ryou falters into silence and curls up around himself. He nudges casserole around his plate in the same way that Shiro does when he knows that he _should_ eat but doesn’t know how much he _wants_ to do that. Both of them swallow thickly, and as Shiro massages the bridge of his nose, he can guess what might be rolling around in Ryou’s head. There’s a lot that they haven’t talked about so far today, but Shiro’s anniversary hangs the heaviest over everything. Like a cloud of sentient smog that could seep into their chests, wind itself around their lungs, and clamp down around their insides until both of them end up in the ER from sheer, pigheaded refusal to admit what’s going on and how they’re feeling.

Not that Shiro wants to avoid the subject entirely. Except bringing the date up now would feel too manipulative. Instead, he takes his beat to focus on eating, on getting down enough of his dinner. More than usual, Shiro needs to make sure that he eats enough tonight. He’ll need the energy to get through his NA meeting later.

After another few bites, Shiro lets himself look around the diner. Sighing softly, he takes a sip of his Diet Coke and then a deeper swig of water. He combs his eyes over the booths along the walls and other tables scattered all over the restaurant, taking in the sights of other patrons.

He doesn’t linger on most of them for long, mostly out of respect for the social conventions against staring at strangers. Still, it’s helping soothe his nerves a bit, so he lets himself look at a booth where a bright-eyed, brown-haired woman sits with a trio of youngish boys… At the table where three older-looking, well-dressed people are laughing at a joke that must’ve come from the pointy-chinned fourth member of their group… At a back-corner booth that swims before him, fuzzy around the edges until Shiro squints at it… As it comes into clearer focus, Shiro can make out a billowing, puffy, silver ponytail. Whoever has that leans their head on a set of broad shoulders and a thick, brown arm curls around the ponytailed person’s shoulders. Someone with a floppy mess of black hair sits opposite the pair, but trying to get a better look at them makes Shiro wince. It feels like David Beckham’s kicking soccer balls against the inside of his skull.

As he turns back to Ryou, Shiro can’t blink his brother back into focus, so he rubs at both eyes. As he slouches onto the table, propping himself up on his elbows, he allows himself to sigh. In the back of his mind, Shiro can’t silence a feisty little voice that, even after all this time apart, sounds so impossibly like Keith. It gripes at him about how _stupid_ it is for him to back off of looking at other people when that’s helping him feel steadier. If other people can’t put up with Shiro needing to look out for his own comfort, the Keith-adjacent voice insists, then that’s their problem and they need to get over themselves.

A dry, withered chuckle coughs itself up out of Shiro’s chest. A faded smile twists up his lips as he thinks about how crazy this is. Not that he’s recalling Keith; that’s par for the course. Shiro’s gotten to the point where not every song he hears makes him think of the boy he hurt so badly, then abandoned, but he still hasn’t gone an entire week without thinking about Keith. It makes so much sense for him to linger around the back of Shiro’s mind today. They weren’t talking at this point four years ago, on the afternoon when Shiro downed thirteen hits of Vicodin with a glass of tequila — but the thought of his suicide attempt makes Shiro’s stomach writhe with guilt. His lungs tie themselves up in knots, but they keep breathing perfectly. His tongue feels thick and heavy, laden down by its own weight as if he’s been shot full of Novocaine.

Trying to restart the conversation makes Shiro inhale sharply. He slumps harder onto his elbows and lets his chin droop. Plumbing the table for answers doesn’t help him any. Looking at his bowl lets him see what kind of progress he’s made on eating dinner. But as he digs his fingers at his temple, Shiro could swear that he’s eaten more than this. That someone must’ve snuck in and put more noodles in front of him. Which is ridiculous, and Shiro knows that. Still, he has to close his eyes while reminding himself that he would have noticed somebody bringing him more food, and he knows that his perception can get wonky sometimes — especially when distorted by guilt — and he has been eating fine so far tonight, or else Ryou would’ve objected by now.

Instead of protesting, Ryou scoots closer to the table. He nudges his toes at Shiro’s ankle so gently that it feels like a hug. Since they’ve got rather a lot of stuff between them at the moment — dinners and drinks and furniture and silverware, all standing in the way of them actually being able to embrace each other — Ryou opts for curling a hand around Shiro’s wrist.

“Kashi? _Niichan_?” He squeezes Shiro apologetically, almost meekly. “This is really getting at you, isn’t it? My thing with Tatsuya?”

Shiro nods, kneads harder at his temple. “That would be why I asked you to please talk to him and give him another chance.”

When Ryou sighs, Shiro can practically hear his eyes rolling so hard that it’s a miracle they stay inside his head.

Regardless, Ryou moves his fingers up to Shiro’s palm and offers, “I’ll call him up and have a talk while you’re at your meeting tonight, okay? If he doesn’t pick up on the first try, I’ll keep bugging him until he pays attention. As long as that’s agreeable to you?”

“It’s perfect. You’re not gonna like the other thing I want to ask you, though.”

“So what? Ask it anyway. As long as it isn’t going to hurt you.”

“It’s not, it’s just…” Gulping, Shiro makes himself open his eyes. Hopes he doesn’t seem too piteous as he looks as Ryou. “I know you hate asking Sven for favors. But d’you think you could ask him to check on Slav tonight? Maybe hang out with him?”

Although his cheeks have gone pale, Ryou nods without hesitation. “Expecting tonight’s meeting to be rough?”

“Diplomatic understatement, but yeah.” In the hopes of helping both of them, Shiro drops the hand that’s been going at his temple. He worms the other one away from Ryou, but only so he can lace their fingers together. “I’m sharing at group tonight. Which… I don’t know _how_ that’s gonna go, but based on precedent? And considering what day it is?”

Ryou wrinkles his nose. “Did somebody put you up to this? I mean, Dr. Iverson wouldn’t, but—”

“Unless you count me putting _myself_ up to this? No. I signed up with Miranda six weeks ago—”

“Okay, but… You _know_ what day it is. And you _know_ how hard you’ve been working to get that one-year chip, this time… I’m just?”

Rubbing his thumb along the back of Shiro’s hand, Ryou looks for all the world like they’re little kids again. Like they’re six years old, living back in Texas with their parents, and all he wants is for his Kashi to get down from that tree and just go ask Dad to help them retrieve Ryou’s favorite Batman action figure. Because Shiro could fall out of the tree while on this rescue mission and he could seriously hurt himself, and since Ryou could’ve intervened to stop his brother, he’d end up shoving an unfair amount of blame onto his own shoulders.

With a deep breath, Ryou shakes his head. “This could go really well for you,” he acquiesces. “But I still really want to know what you’re thinking. Because, to me? Planning a share at group for today of all days? That sounds like pretty risky business.”

“That’s not a bad idea. _Risky Business_ , I mean. If I hadn’t already polished a draft with Mitch and Robin? I might kick things off by sliding up to the podium in a pair of aviators with ‘Old Time Rock And Roll’ playing on the speakers. It’d be suitably dramatic and I’d—”

“Except you wouldn’t do that, and you _know_ that deflecting isn’t gonna make me worry about you any less.”

“Wasn’t intentionally deflecting.” Shiro swallows a sigh instead of letting it slip. Squeezes Ryou’s hand. “The thought dropped out, more than anything. But you’re right.” This next squeeze is for Shiro’s own comfort, more than Ryou’s. “More to the point: I’ve had plenty of chances to back out. But every time I’ve thought about doing that? One something or another has flared up in my head, telling me not to. Which… Isn’t necessarily great?”

“Because impulses to drink, purge, or get your hands on pills _also_ flare up like that?”

Nodding, Shiro doesn’t let himself cough up the thought, _God, how awkward must it be for someone to be bulimic in the universe of those_ ** _Purge_** _movies? Or purging-subtype anorexic? Honestly, they use “purge” as a verb for their annual crazy Mardi Gras of murder and pillaging and systematic violence against people of color, poor people, and sick people. And yeah, it makes sense, given the in-universe logic justifying the festival to people as a time to expunge all of those toxic impulses. But where does that leave all the folks who need to use that verb as a descriptor of what they do to themselves because of their eating disorders?_

He still lets himself have the thought because that’s part of the dialectical behavioral therapy that he’s been working on with Ulaz. Self-censorship doesn’t help Shiro, within his own mind, and he can’t find peace by “coping” with his impulses in ways that deny their existence. He can’t keep screwing himself over by avoiding his feelings entirely unless he has a show to do or a song to write. So, he needs to give himself more room to think what all he thinks and to feel what all he feels. He needs to put more concentrated effort into reminding himself that none of his feelings are inherently wrong or bad. Much like the crush on his therapist that he hasn’t shaken, his feelings exist and what matters most are the actions that Shiro takes in expressing and dealing with them.

Still, he doesn’t let that particular thought come out because doing so definitely _would_ constitute deflecting. Trying to shove Ryou off of this difficult conversational track and onto something that, despite its tangential ties to Shiro’s problems, is sillier and therefore easier for him to swallow. Easier for him to trudge through, not least because there are more pressing matters to discuss.

Instead, Shiro takes a deep breath, and then a second. A third for good measure. Maybe it isn’t now or never. Maybe he’d have plenty of other chances to tell Ryou what’s been going on inside of him. But as he meets his brother’s gaze and feels Ryou squeeze his hand, Shiro nods again. He’s ready.

“First of all, and promise me that you won’t laugh?” He waits only long enough for Ryou to agree before confessing, “I’ve been thinking about George Michael, okay — which? I know how that sounds, especially from me—”

“It sounds like something that you do all the time anyway, yes. Because he’s only been your idol for _how_ long—”

“Yes. Duly noted, brother. But I’ve been thinking more, like? Yeah, the official coroner’s report from St. George’s death ruled that it was down to natural causes. But back around New Year’s, his partner was talking about suicide—”

“Except somebody hacked into his Twitter to post that, right?”

“That’s what he said. I really hope it’s true, but at the same time?” Shiro quirks his shoulders without knowing why. They move like they’ve got minds of their own. “It’s me, right? And with how much he meant to me, then my own history here? I keep feeling like, ‘What if he _did_ die by suicide? What if he _was_ suffering like that and didn’t feel like he had anyone to lean on? What if he felt like his support network couldn’t help him and he couldn’t reach out to anyone because of shame, or fear, or stigma about mental health issues, or stigma about some parts of his sex life, or something else, or all of the above?’”

Ryou opens his mouth as if he has something to add. But ultimately, he only squeezes Shiro’s hand and bids him to go on.

“So, I admit that I don’t know what the truth of George Michael’s situation is.” Nodding, for no discernible reason, makes Shiro feel stronger. More sure that he can do this. “But I know the truth of _my_ situation. I _do_ have a strong support network. I _do_ have people I can lean on. And I’m part of other people’s support networks, too. And the whole point of sharing in group is to start conversations. To help each other feel like someone else understands what we’re going through and can be there for us. To chip in on the _emotional_ work of community-building.”

Another deep breath comes out as a sigh. But it sounds so resolved that Shiro makes his own arms break out in gooseflesh.

“I don’t want to be a version of myself who doesn’t take advantage of an opportunity like this,” he says. Looking Ryou in the eye is making his skin crawl and his stomach twist, but Shiro keeps it up. “I want to be a Shirogane Takashi who _will_ take a chance to reach out like this, on today of all days, and hopefully help someone else. But even if I only help myself? It’s better than saying nothing, right?”

Despite agreeing with the general sentiment, Ryou lets go of Shiro. “I’m still hungry and I need my dominant hand. You, keep talking.”

 _You don’t_ ** _know_** _that I’ve got more to say_ , Shiro could point out — and would, if he wanted to be completely full of garbage.

Instead, he tucks both clumps of bangs back away from his face. “Secondly, I’ve been thinking a lot about ‘When You’re Away’—”

“You mean the new-ish song? The one that finally came together when you dumped Lotor?”

“Yeah. I’m proud of it. Audiences have been liking it, since we debuted it last month.” Even so, Shiro drags his fingers around the curve of his ear, combing them through his long, white fringe. “But it’s been rubbing my face in some old regrets? Things that I never got closure about, not really. Things that I want to make right, but _can’t_. Which I’ve been talking out with Ulaz, and he’s been helping? Except, as far as today and this anniversary go?”

Sighing doesn’t help. Shrugging doesn’t help, either. The only thing that steadies Shiro’s mind is glancing over at that back-corner booth again. Which makes about as much sense as some of Lance’s more creative strings of not-exactly-cussing, because there’s no reason for him to feel better from squinting at a trio of strangers. But as he pulls the floppy black-haired one back into as clear a view as possible, Shiro feels like he’s dropped a ten-ton weight off his shoulders. His breaths come in more easily and his whole head feels so much clearer.

“I used to tell someone not to give up on himself,” he admits, turning back to Ryou again.

With a shake of the head, Shiro makes his eyes focus on his brother — but he can’t keep making eye-contact. With a gulp, he drops his eyes to the table, looks at his bowl but doesn’t really _see_ the contents. Instead of food, they seem like a glistening, tangled heap of something that _could_ be noodles, meat, and vegetables but could just as easily be something foraged from the intestines of an alien being autopsied in Area 51. If this is how hard it is to look Ryou in the eye, then God, simply saying the name _Keith_ feels downright impossible. Like even Superman wouldn’t be able to pull it off, if he were in Shiro’s position.

“Happened back in Chicago,” is a difficult enough confession. “I used to say that all the time to one person in particular. Someone important, who didn’t know how special he was. I promised that I would never give up on him. But I tried so hard to give up on _my_ self while telling him not to do the same. Which not only makes me a complete _hypocrite_ , but also—”

“Kashi. I don’t want to interrupt like this, but?” Ryou sighs and it sounds like begging. “Can you look at me?”

Complying puts Shiro on the receiving end of a _Look_ so earnest, part of him wants to scream.

He doesn’t let himself do that, because he doesn’t want to be a Shiro who pushes away from the people who care about him. Who doesn’t feel like addressing how much they love him and tries to run before he can hurt them or be hurt, instead of taking the chance at being happy. Who would do what he’s done before because hoping for better seems like too much effort.

Still, Shiro’s heart writhes around in guilt as Ryou starts, “If you mean who I think you mean—”

“I probably do. It’s not like the list is very long—”

“Then, I’m _so_ sorry, Kashi. Because this _sucks_. And if I could get you out of needing to deal with it, I would—”

“It’s only fair for me to deal with this, if you really think about it.” Twisting his fingers up in his white fringe, Shiro explains, “Maurice engineered things and he created the situation, set a lot of the rules and parameters? But within that rubric, I made several of my own bad choices. I had more agency than I wanted to believe at the time, and chose not to use it for good—”

“Which you’ve been _working on_ and forgiving yourself for.” Ryou looks at Shiro like he expects an objection. When he doesn’t get one, he pushes up his glasses and goes on, “I’m not saying that I like the idea of you carrying around so many regrets, because I don’t. And I understand that you want to make amends to certain people, and that you want to do right by them. Even if I can’t get it in the same way that you do, I understand, but…”

Inhaling deeply, meditatively, Ryou slouches onto his own elbows. “Sometimes, there’s not a lot that can be done. Regrets we can’t fix. Or wrongs we can’t put right in exactly the ways that we want to do.” Ryou’s shrug seems like he’s carrying far too much on his shoulders. “Look, I know it’s not the same thing? But I wish that my last talk with Obaasan hadn’t been me acting like a huge brat. I wish that I’d been more at my best with her. Instead of ranting about how it was _so unfair_ that Dad lectured me for having sex with ‘Chelle after that year’s Sadie’s dance while _you_ were up in Chicago, going out to bars with Mark and a fake ID. One of the last things I said to our Grandmother was something like, ‘Kashi lost _his_ virginity to a guy he just met because this dude looked like his first crush and he had a New Orleans accent, just like Cameron did. But sure, _I’m_ screwing off because I slept with the girl I’ve been dating for over a year.’”

Despite the heaviness in Ryou’s tone, Shiro can’t help chuckling. “For what it’s worth? Obaasan loved it when you got wound up. Not that it takes away the regret or anything — or even makes it any easier for you — but? She probably didn’t mind as much as you do. Because she found it endearing when you got like that.”

“She’s not the only irreparable regret that I’ve got, though.” Tapping his thumb against the stem of his spoon, Ryou goes on, “When Dad called the last time? Before he and Mom went out, that night? I wish I hadn’t blown him off. And yeah, as I’ve heard from you, two different therapists, Aunt Satomi, Aunt Naoko, you, Kira, Tatsuya, Dr. Iverson, _you_ , your old boss in Chicago, his husband, Mark, Slav, Ezor, Sven on exactly one occasion, Hunk, Matt, Pidge, and oh right, did I even mention, **_you_**? I couldn’t have _known_ that it was the last time Dad would call me—”

“Because you _couldn’t_ have known that. There was literally no way—”

“But I still wish, in retrospect, that I hadn’t blown him off. That I hadn’t been like, ‘God, Kashi isn’t even here with me, stop asking me about his boyfriends and talk to him yourself.’ That I’d tried to let him have more of a word in edgewise, but…”

This bone-deep sigh drags Ryou into a slouch that cannot be either comfortable or good for him. God, just looking at him makes Shiro’s back ache with sympathetic pain. Ryou’s eyes, however, gleam with a mix of resolve and belief so heartfelt and sincere that Shiro can’t help blushing. His entire face flushes so hot, it’s like he has fire demons running amok beneath his skin, burning him alive from the inside out.

“Whoever you’re thinking of, Kashi-niichan?” Ryou doesn’t quite smile, but _God_ , his eyes have an edge to them like he _wants_ to openly beam at Shiro. “It’s true. You might never get the kind of chance you want with him. It _could_ happen, but it’s so wildly unlikely that you can _not_ afford to torture yourself forever, waiting on that opportunity to show up.”

“True. I agree. But I don’t feel like I’m torturing myself so much as—”

“You have been doing _so well_ lately. You’ve come so far, and you’re doing so much better. And I know, I _know_ , it’s a huge struggle for you, every day, in ways that you hope I never understand aside from seeing how they affect you. But still?” Nudging his foot at Shiro’s ankle, Ryou allows himself a small smile. “You’re eight weeks off from being a whole year sober, which _is not_ a small feat. You’ve actually been talking to the people who love you when you feel down, instead of purging. Or starving yourself. Or busting ass at the gym until either you pass out, or I send Hunk and Lance in to get you. Because the latter has those puppy eyes you’re weak for and the former is one of the only people who can effectively manhandle you.”

“I mean, Lance could likely pull it off, if I were tired enough. But I’d rather not put any of us in the position to find out.”

Another bump of foot against ankle — which does nothing to hide how much Ryou strains to keep that smile in place. “You broke things off with Lotor, even though a huge part of you didn’t _want_ to do that. Because you saw the patterns that you and Lotor kept falling into. And the motions you kept going through. And how much you both hurt each other, even when you didn’t mean to do that — and _you decided_ , Kashi, that you and Lotor _both_ deserved better than that. I maintain that you deserve better than he does, but I respect that you think it’s a matter of you both mutually deserving more and better and all of—”

“I feel that way because Lotor and I _do_ deserve better than what we do to each other.”

Sighing softly, Shiro holds up a hand by way of asking Ryou to let him think for a moment.

Once he’s gotten his thoughts collected enough, he says, “I don’t want to share at group tonight because I feel guilty for what I did. Or because I’m punishing myself over old regrets. I just feel like…” His shoulders shrug of their own accord. “I don’t know how many times I said, ‘You can never give up on yourself’ back in Chicago? But I said it pretty regularly. And for once, I’d really like to live by those words, y’know? Instead of paying lip-service to them and acting like that’s even halfway good enough.”

Although Ryou needs a moment to consider this, he eventually supposes that he can see his brother’s point. “Is there anything else on your mind, then? Because I know you. If you actually plan something out like this, then you usually have at _least_ three different reasons for it.”

“The third reason is mostly about commemorating things.” Nodding knocks Shiro’s white fringe loose again. As he drags his hand back through it, he explains, “I’m not trying to celebrate how I tried to kill myself. But some parts deserve that attention. Like, the fact that I’m still here. And failing like I did gave me the strength to get out of Chicago and away from Maurice. And yeah, I’m still a work-in-progress in so many ways? I’m still healing in places and trying to improve so many things about myself? But I just… I’m not trying to throw a huge party over this, I swear, but at the same time, it’s like?”

Shiro can’t contain a sigh as he meets Ryou’s gaze. “I just don’t want to die anymore. And I don’t care if that’s a big accomplishment or not. It means something to me, and… I don’t know? I thought I could honor myself by sharing that tonight.”

Ryou’s spoon clatters against his plate. He clasps both hands around one of Shiro’s and presses a quick, gentle kiss to Shiro’s knuckles. Voice barely above a whisper, he says, “Kashi, there is nothing _just_ about the fact that you don’t want to die anymore. Whether not feeling suicidal anymore is an accomplishment for anyone else doesn’t matter. You’ve worked _so hard_ for this; you _deserve_ to be happy about this success. And in case you need to hear it? I’m going to celebrate that. Because I love you _so much_ , Kashi-niichan, and I am _so. proud_. of you.”

“Thanks, little brother,” Shiro murmurs. Before he can stop himself, he looks Ryou in the eye and adds, “And there’s one more thing. Not a reason why I’m sharing with the group, but… A request that I need to make? If you don’t mind?”

A quick jerk of Ryou’s head and he says, “Of course, Kashi. Anything you need. Just name it.”

“Hunk, Pidge, and Lance still don’t know why today is such a big deal to me.” Confessing this makes Shiro squirm slightly in his seat — but he keeps looking at Ryou and he presses on, “They’re all gonna be at the apartment after my meeting. I told Hunk that I wanted to do something special for ten months of sobriety, but… And I’d like to have you there with me? Because having you around would make things so much easier? Because, it’s like…”

“Because before you actually enjoy whatever legitimate party Hunk put together… you want to come clean about your attempt.” Nodding at him makes Ryou smile and squeeze Shiro’s hand as if he’s caressing something irreplaceable and precious. He promises, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than wherever I can help you, Kashi.”


	10. Wednesday, September 13th, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here these idiots are, exactly four weeks before _[But boys spring infernal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574/)_ opens.
> 
> Also, there’s casual marijuana use in this chapter (Rolo, Keith, and Nyma sharing a joint while watching _Steven Universe_ ), reference to Rolo smoking weed as a method of pain management, and if you’ve made it this far without screaming, _“Keith, you FUCKING IDIOT”_? Then, that probably will not last through the next few thousand words. My sincerest apologies. ♡

Letting Allura pay an Uber to take him home always leaves a bad taste in Keith’s mouth. Not because of whatever beef Shay has with Uber or Lyft or one of the myriad knock-offs of them this week, which Shay suggests while Allura summons the ride. It’s supposed to be a joke — or so Keith concludes, based on how Shay’s face falls when he doesn’t laugh — but he’s not sure where the humor is.

For one thing, Keith can’t keep up with all the fiddly nuances of which service is or isn’t okay to use when Shay’s had at least five big Issues with Uber alone in the past twelve months. More importantly, Keith doesn’t like relenting when Allura tries to do this for him. He doesn’t enjoy letting his ex-girlfriend-turned-best-friend pay his way through things. It’s humiliating. It’s perfect confirmation that Keith is a burden on the people who care about him, all two of them. No matter what he does to prevent this — no matter what Allura and Kolivan do to help him — Keith drags them down, like dead-weight chained to their ankles.

On the other hand, though, Keith doesn’t have much room to argue. When he and Allura finish up with dinner at Golden Tree, when Keith’s ready to head back to his place, he’s more than got his hands full. Two huge brown paper bags full of takeout, an equally stuffed plastic bag (laden down with yet more takeout), and his backpack (which is crammed full of notebooks, writing implements, folders of important papers, books and readings for his classes, food, spare clothes in case he needs them, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a huge thermos that he can put coffee in, and his Mom’s old knife, among other things) — all of which would be Hell-and-a-half to drag around on a city bus.

About the last thing that Keith wants, once he gets home, is to deal with other human beings for the next foreseeable ever. But two of the many containers of takeout that Allura paid for aren’t for him. Once he has his week’s worth of leftovers stashed in his shitty fridge, Keith takes a deep breath and makes his way across the hall, carrying two containers of the vegetarian casserole whose name he can’t pronounce. Even out in the hallway, he catches the telltale stench of weed reeking off the other apartment in this building. There’s something equally pungent mixed in today, though. Kind of spicy, maybe? Possibly some kind of incense? It scratches up Keith’s throat like Allura used to scratch up his back, whatever it is.

When he plucks up the nerve to knock, Nyma answers the door in a turquoise sports bra and a pair of short black pajamas, flashing an impressive amount of olive-toned brown skin. Shaking out her long, golden pigtails and asking how he’s doing, she gives Keith a grin that she probably intends to be suggestive — except Keith can’t tell what, exactly, she’s trying to suggest. Granted, he can’t tell what _most_ people are trying to suggest in about ninety-five percent of social situations. But usually, he at least gets the ignorant bliss of not picking up on the fact that they want to imply anything.

Nyma, on the other hand, offers him no such refuge. She just keeps smiling at Keith like a spider who’s welcoming a fly into her parlor. Waggling her pale yellow eyebrows for no reason that Keith can discern because unless she and Rolo are into both polyamory and bedraggled, ill-tempered urchins, Nyma wouldn’t try to proposition him. Acting like there’s something going on and both of them know exactly what it is.

“Look, uh… Allura was buying me food again?” Keith proffers the containers that he got for her and Rolo, but Nyma doesn’t reach out and take them. Sighing, he explains, “There’s no meat or anything. There’s egg, I think? But no meat. It’s traditional Olkari cooking. It’s good.”

“Yeah, I know. Olkari food’s always good.” Which is the perfect time for Nyma to _take her food_ and let Keith off the hook — except she leans against the threshold instead, folding her arms in a way that somehow defies the entire point of a sports bra (at least, insofar as Keith understands what they’re for) and pushes her breasts out toward him. “So, who is Allura to you, exactly? Is she your girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend. We haven’t been together like that for a while, though.”

“But she keeps doing stuff like buying you food and all that? Is she, like, a sugar mama?”

“No, we’re just friends. She has a girlfriend, now. But her family is, like, obscenely wealthy, okay? And she doesn’t really get what it’s like to be broke. She doesn’t even get what it’s like to be middle class, but…” Keith shrugs and once again tries to push the food at Nyma. “Look, my best friend is rich and doesn’t understand that I don’t like being in her debt. But as long as she’s taking it upon herself to feed me? I’m gonna at least try to help out you and Rolo. Unless you want me to stop.”

Quirking an eyebrow as though Keith just made himself the single most fascinating thing in the entire universe, Nyma shakes her head. “In case you haven’t noticed, Keith? We’re in no position to really argue with free food.”

“Yeah, me neither. Which is why I compromise with my Princess by letting her do things like this for me. Like, she _says_ that I’m not in her debt, but that’s because she _doesn’t get_ what it’s like to not have money—”

“Do you wanna come in for a little while, though?” Getting gaped at doesn’t seem to faze Nyma any. Shrugging as though it’s completely normal to invite your irritable, off-putting neighbor into your apartment, she scratches at her long, slender neck. “One of Rolo’s buddies hooked him up with some _Steven Universe_ episodes that we haven’t seen yet. Anyway, we can at least pay you back with tea, right? That way, we won’t be in _your_ debt, either.”

Keith has no idea what a Steven Universe is, or how it’s any different from a regular universe. But Nyma’s logic is so solid that he can’t argue with it — at least, not without completely undermining several of his own points. In a token show of respect for the fact that he has work to do for his classes, he darts back into his apartment for his notebook and his copy of _Jane Eyre_. Sure, he has _Kolivan’s_ class in the morning, not his Gothic Literary Traditions course. But he’s about two weeks ahead in Kolivan’s readings. In between classes, he’s already hitting up the library and trying to pull sources for his midterm essay on the French Revolution, which isn’t due for another month or so.

None of which exactly matters, when Rolo and Nyma welcome him into their place. For one thing, their slobbering mutt, Beezer, takes it upon himself to curl up in Keith’s lap as soon as Nyma directs him to the sofa. Nuzzling at Keith’s stomach, Beezer does look adorable — not as sweet as Rufus, but Keith can admit that he’s biased in favor of Kolivan and Antok’s dog above all other canines — but he whines whenever Keith’s hands wander too far from his belly or his ears. Pretty hard to read Charlotte Brontë, much less take notes on the reading, when Keith’s fingers are otherwise occupied with pampering a dog who looks like he’s been through as much hardship as his humans have.

Moreover, Nyma wasn’t kidding about the tea, but while she’s putting on the kettle, Rolo breaks out a fresh joint and asks if Keith wants the first hit. Wearing an open vest without a shirt, a pair of boxers that look like they’ve been through the wringer, and a purple knit cap with a puffball on top and flaps that cover his ears, Rolo explains that Keith’s the guest, which means he’s got certain privileges. Smiling like he’s actually glad to have Keith sitting on his couch, Rolo sits down on the coffee-table that he and Nyma put together out of cinder-blocks and a huge slab of wood that they got from Lord only knows where. According to him, he comes from places where guest right still counts for a lot.

As if it might make this situation come together in a way that makes any logical sense, Keith blinks at the rolled-up white hunk in Rolo’s fingers. It doesn’t have any answers for him — but this fact at least makes sense. Literally why would a non-sentient marijuana cigarette have any light to shed on the matter of why Keith’s neighbors are being so weirdly nice to him?

“Hey, no hard feelings about it if you don’t want any,” Rolo says with a shrug and a smile that’s enviably easy. God, he sounds so genuine that Keith’s heart twists with guilt over the fact that he’s allowed himself to question Rolo’s motives. “We just don’t have a lot to share, is all. Figured it might not be a bad idea to share this—”

“No, no, man, it’s cool. It’s not you, I just…” Keith sighs and slumps against the cushion, silently cursing the fact that there really isn’t a polite way to voice any of what he’s really feeling. “I had a long day, is all. And I’ve got class in the morning. And it’s been a while since I got the chance to smoke up. You’re fine, promise. I was just thinking about if I really wanted to or not.”

Rolo doesn’t even give that any thought; he just nods like he understands exactly what Keith means. “Well, if you’re worried about the quality? I can’t promise that it’s our best batch ever. But we don’t cut it with anything shady. Or mix in anything else. Not even tobacco—”

“Yeah, because that kills it for _you_ , babe,” Nyma chimes in, leaning against their fridge and glaring impatiently at their tarnished, ancient-looking teakettle. Throwing Keith another grin that reminds him of a shark, she explains, “We only ever started growing weed because it’s about the only thing out there that helps with the pain in his leg. Mixing in anything else makes it stop working in the ways he needs.”

Keith tries to smile in return and hopes he doesn’t come off looking like a serial killer or anything. “Can’t blame you for avoiding some of the other pain management options, either. I mean, Vicodin exists and I guess that it works for some people? But—”

Blenching, Rolo cuts Keith off with a noise like someone retching in a trash can. “The docs had me on that for the pain after I first got this guy.” He knocks on his prosthetic leg. “I couldn’t stand it. I can’t judge anybody else’s problems and I don’t want to? But that junk… Man, whatever good it did for my pain? Got outweighed by how it made everything get all itchy and woozy. Taking it made me feel like I was gonna heave—”

“Oh my god, _right_?!” The words burst out of Keith before he realizes that they’re coming. His cheeks flush and he’s likely doing a good impression of a tomato. He dug himself into this conversational hole, though, so he explains, “I’ve only tried Vicodin once. Back before I came out here. It was one of the worst nights of my fucking life.”

Nowhere near as bad as the nights that Keith spent running around Chicago, looking for the person who’d shared said Vicodin.

But thankfully, before Keith can fall too far down that mental abyss — thinking about Shiro and letting all those memories come back to fuck him over — Nyma saunters over with three huge mugs of tea. She ducks back to their kitchenette-adjacent area, fetching the containers of food and a couple spoons. While she settles onto the couch beside Keith, he leans forward to accept the offered hit. Grinning pleasantly, Rolo flicks a cheap lighter and as though he last smoked up yesterday, Keith turns the joint over in his fingers. He tries not to watch too closely or for too long, lest he look like some kind of pyromaniac. Still, the fire draws Keith in as if he’s a moth, begging him to stare.

Once the joint is burning well, he sucks in deeply. Lets the smooth smoke fill his lungs. Promptly finds himself coughing, but not too badly. Especially not relative to how he hacked up, the first time that he ever tried smoking weed. The lack of tobacco helps, too. As nice as Keith finds the smell of it, tobacco smoke is fucking rancid. Rather than giving him the full, soothing feeling of the weed, tobacco’s only ever made Keith feel like someone’s crinkling his insides up like tissue paper and then using his body as kindling.

Another three puffs — smaller ones, this time — and Keith passes the joint over to Nyma. Before she takes her first hit, she reminds Rolo about the Steven Universe thing, whatever it is. As he sets up a fairly weathered laptop on their table, he explains that this is some popular kids’ cartoon. The plot doesn’t make a lick of sense. Amidst the babbling summary of it that Nyma and Rolo give him, Keith picks up on something about sentient lesbian space rocks and how the main character (the titular Steven Universe) is somehow also his own mom — but that’s about it. Which he can’t chalk up to the marijuana, he doesn’t think. It probably hasn’t had enough time to do its work.

Still, he nestles himself in their sofa’s cushions and ruffles Beezer’s ears, content enough to watch the show without understanding anything. Nonsense or not, the animation is cute and whatever’s going on seems like something that Keith can see tons of kids enjoying. Everything about the show seems pretty fun.

At least, it does until midway through the fourth episode that comes up on Rolo’s playlist. Keith’s confused about why the Hell the Steven kid, his dad, and the sentient alien rock called Pearl are in a city that is obviously New York. He doesn’t get how all the songs are supposed to fit together, not even by the loose standards that musicals require. But when Pearl sighs while looking over Steven and his dad? When a melancholy, tinkling piano line starts up? Those might as well be flashing neon signs about what’s coming up.

Keith’s right, too. Maybe he doesn’t guess all of the specifics, but he gets the general idea: a song of lovelorn mourning. Even without comprehending all the references in the lyrics, his breath hitches in his throat when Pearl’s voice actress sings, _“It’s over, isn’t it? Isn’t it over?”_

Keith swallows thickly and his eyes burn, threatening to water, all from listening to her belt, _“Who am I now, in this world without her? Petty and dull, with the nerve to doubt her? What does it matter? It’s already done!”_

Down in Keith’s lap, Beezer whines and rolls over to expose his belly.

Perfect timing. Keith blinks hard and the tears spill over, but at least he doesn’t make any noise about letting them gush out where they will. As he musses his hand up and down Beezer’s body — as more tears roll down his cheeks — at least Keith doesn’t lose control of his breathing. As he watches the dumb mutt’s tongue flop out of his mouth and slap into his nose, Keith manages a smile. Thankfully, when Rolo elbows him to offer up the joint again, Keith feels like he’s more or less done crying.

Seeing the damp trails on Keith’s cheeks, Rolo gives him a knowing smile. “Yeah, I know, right? This show gets to you like that.”

“I guess it must,” Keith supposes, bringing the joint to his lips for another puff.

“It’s even worse about the waterworks when you actually know what’s going on,” says Nyma, right before shoving a forkful of casserole into her mouth. Once she’s swallowed, she adds, “It’s pretty out there, and there are a lot of parts that don’t make sense even if you _do_ know the show? But it’ll play your heartstrings like a classically trained quartet at a rich people wedding.”

Nodding is easy enough, so Keith does it. He goes along with whatever Rolo and Nyma want to say about their weird space lesbians cartoon, because they know what they’re talking about and Keith doesn’t want to talk about what made him cry. God, Shiro’s been out of Keith’s life for longer than he was ever in it. When April 15th, 2018 rolls around, Keith will have made it five full years without that sad, beautiful boy who he ever dared to fall in love with, even knowing that he didn’t deserve Shiro and that Shiro would not — _could_ not — ever love him back. He can go for days at a time without thinking about Shiro. Sometimes, Keith’s made it to two weeks. Once, he went three weeks without _something_ coming up and snaking around his ankles, trying to drag him down into an infinite, gaping darkness and rip him to pieces with the memories of how badly he let Shiro down and fucked over one of the people who least deserved it.

Here Keith is, though: sitting on his neighbors’ ratty sofa, taking his longest hit yet off of Rolo’s joint, watching some cartoon for little kids, and praying that he doesn’t start to cry again. Considering his luck, Keith might tear up in the middle of a comedic scene, and then he’d be stuck needing to explain himself.

He should probably beg off back to his place before he can make everything get awkward. But shifting his legs even slightly makes Beezer keen at him like, _“Human, noooo. What are you doing. I do not consent to letting you leave.”_

Worse, though: music starts coming up from the garage. It’s faint, for now. Just someone strumming down every string on an electric guitar. But Keith groans and thumps his has back against the cushions because he knows too good and too goddamn well that the noise isn’t gonna stay so borderline polite.

“I swear to _God_ ,” he mutters, dragging his unoccupied hand back through his hair. “If those Galaxy Garrison punks keep me up all night again, I’m going to fucking _scream_. I am going to raise all holy Hell and make a goddamn _banshee_ jealous of my screaming.”

“Go ahead, as long as you only scream at _them_. They’ve been keeping _us_ awake, too. I’m not gonna put up with getting yelled at for their practices going too long.” Nyma arches an eyebrow as if to ask when Keith plans to make good on that threat.

Which is fair enough on her part, given that Keith has had this item on his mental “to do” list for about six weeks and still has yet to make any efforts in the right direction. In his defense, though, he’s usually too tired to truly consider storming downstairs and shouting at this atrocious local punk band who has no respect for anybody else. Rolo and Nyma have jobs. Keith has class. Lord only knows what the fuck those assholes in Galaxy Garrison have going for them, but apparently, they can practice until all hours of the night, usually but not exclusively on Wednesdays.

As the cartoon’s theme song starts up again, Nyma sighs and pokes her spoon at the casserole. “Anyway, they might not have too much longer to use the garage,” she says, trying and failing to sound off-handed about whatever’s on her mind. “When I got home from work, Morvok was out in front of the building, talking to some guys in suits. And I didn’t really like the looks of them.”

“Most guys can’t pull off suits, it’s true.” Keith huffs as Beezer licks his wrist. “What were they talking about?”

“Didn’t hear all of that, but considering how many other buildings around here have gotten bought up lately?” Inhaling deeply, as though it’s taking her a lot of energy and patience not to explode in an big, squalling outburst, Nyma curls her long legs up to her chest. “Gentrification is such a motherfucker. We’ve already lost three other homes because of those smug, wealthy white people buying up places on our sides of the tracks, driving up the property values so a ton of white hipster shits can spend their parents’ money on craft beers and twenty-five-dollar pieces of avocado toast. Who cares about the people they’re forcing out of the only places we can afford to live?”

“Fucking Rudy Giuliani,” Keith sighs by way of agreeing. Burrowing deeper into the cushions, he’s finally starting to feel warm and easy. Relaxed, like he’s slipping into a hot bath with some of those expensive aromatherapy oils that Allura loves so much. Tilting his head back, he says to the ceiling, “Kolivan, my advisor up at school? He’s got such a good rant about how Rudy Giuliani is indirectly responsible for a lot of the gentrification that goes on, these days. Because of what he did in New York. Listening to him go off about it — Kolivan him, I mean — when he goes off like that? It’s fucking impressive. Like performance art. Except it actually makes any kind of sense and he doesn’t dump a milkshake on his head or whatever.”

This makes Rolo snort, then descend into a fit of giggles that sounds an awful lot like sunshine. If sunshine could sound like anything, Keith guesses. That thought, in turn, makes him snicker. Which, in its own turn, makes Nyma roll her eyes and declare that Keith and Rolo must be getting well and truly baked.

Down in the garage, the Galaxy Garrison punks start up one of their songs. Something raucous and raging, fast-paced and frenetic, and the lead singer — if you can really call what they do _“singing”_ — caterwauls whatever the lyrics are supposed to be. Thankfully, with Beezer mewling and wriggling around in his lap, Keith doesn’t need to strain himself, trying to make out what the singer thinks they’re going on about. Assuming that they’re actually going on about anything in the first place. Which they might not be. Punk rock is supposed to be about tearing down all of the walls and boundaries and everything that people take for granted about society, and music’s rules about form and content, and human communication, and probably about fifty gazillion other things that Keith’s forgetting about right now.

Simply thinking about that, he can’t help rolling his eyes at the ceiling. God, if he slips up once and forgets a single tedious social nicety because he has a factory defect in his brain and these things don’t come naturally to him? Then, clearly, he isn’t trying hard enough. He isn’t doing all the work to deserve being treated like a real human person, instead of a giant, broken, autistic burden on literally everybody who gets anywhere near him, more so on the people who try to help him for whatever unfathomable reasons they’ve got in mind. (Not that Keith doesn’t say these things about himself anyway, and he _should_ , because they’re true. They’ve been true for as long as he can remember. But why should that give strangers the right to tell him so as if he isn’t well aware enough already?)

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that punks like Galaxy Garrison probably get called a pack of brilliant, creative geniuses because they deliberately chuck out things that Keith would give up his right arm to understand more easily.

Which is and will always be utterly, totally unfair.

Then again, as the next episode starts up on the laptop, Rolo sighs as if he’s lived for ten-thousand years and makes a pretty decent point: “Whatever happens? We might not like it. We might have every right to hate it. But we’ve all made it through a lot already, right?”

“Mhmmm,” Nyma hums. “Doesn’t mean that I’m excited about needing to survive anything else, though.”

“Naw, babe, I get it. And if we’re really lucky? Then, here’s hoping that we won’t need to pull off anything else, just trying to survive.” Rolo knocks on his prosthetic, then knocks on the wood of their makeshift coffee-table. “Maybe we’re not gonna get ousted again. If we’re lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck.” Keith shrugs, watching Beezer flop his tongue into his own nose again. “There’s a reason why luck only happens to rich people. Tons of reasons. They can afford to buy that shit. They can throw cash at reality until it does what they want. They have all kinds of crap they can leverage over other people, over any-fucking-things that try to stand in their ways. They can get fucking _anywhere_ because they paid off the right people or signed the right check.”

Grumbling softly, he rubs both hands over Beezer’s stomach. Allows himself the ghost of a smile as Beezer makes a contented, sighing sound. “We’ll be fine if Morvok sells us out. But it’ll be because of what _we_ did. Not because of anything called fucking _luck_.”

*** * ***

Keith doesn’t pay attention to how long he spends at Rolo and Nyma’s place. Several episodes of their cartoon go by, at least, and Nyma puts on another round of tea after they finish the first one. When Keith yawns and stumbles out into the hallway, things have been so quiet down in the garage that he holds up. Sure, he needs to stretch his back out anyway — but mostly, Keith takes the chance to peer down the stairs, furrowing his brow at the darkness as though this will give him any answers.

Whatever time it is, it’s probably still early to call it quits by Galaxy Garrison’s standards. Maybe they’ve learned some respect? Keeping his breaths shallow and his footsteps quiet, Keith shuffles over to the staircase. He closes his eyes so he can focus on the sounds and just the sounds. Yeah, people are still moving around in the garage. But they could be loading up their gear so they can get out of this side of town. So they can go back to wherever they hang their coats and get some rest, instead of tormenting people who’ve been through enough garbage in their lives already and also Keith.

He lets himself grin at the relative silence. He allows himself to hope. God, he might actually sleep okay tonight, and then—

“Okay, so,” a voice crows so loudly that it makes Keith flinch. “Now that _some of us_ have had real dinner, _like we’re madre double monkey-cheesing, holy fuck **supposed** to_ —”

“Lance, please. Can you take a moment, breathe, and think about this?” A second person sighs heavily. Their voice is deep and smooth, and smart money says that they’re the lead singer. Keith must be stoned off of his own fucking head because just hearing this person talk? Makes his mouth taste like Shiro’s old, acrid mix of spearmint Altoids and his nauseating Dr. Pepper lip-chap. “You know that Pidge and I didn’t mean to miss anything. We didn’t skip a meal intentionally. We rushed down here after going to that reading she cared about up on campus—”

“Yeah,” a third voice chimes in, way higher than the others and squawking in obvious offense. “And you’re got no room to complain here. Considering that I don’t have a problem like that and _he’s_ the one who remembered that we didn’t—”

“Yeah, _after_ I thought that he looked pale!” The first voice — this _Lance_ person — groans as if they want to punch a wall. “I’m not saying that I’m not happy about him remembering. But the fact that we forgot for so long—”

A fourth person whines loudly enough to cut Lance off. “Can’t we all just agree that taking care of ourselves and each other is a good thing? And that we’re gonna keep doing it? And that all of this is part of the sense of ethics that we have as a band?”

 _Yeah, because any of y’all understand what the word “ethics” means._ Rolling his eyes, Keith glares down the rickety stairway as though the punks in Galaxy Garrison can feel his disdain radiating toward them from here.

“For whatever my opinion’s worth here,” says the third person (Pidge, probably). “I’m with Hunk. The most important part here is the fact that we _got_ our dinner. The exact order of operations isn’t really—”

“Well, I think the exact order of operations counts for a lot—”

“Because you’re looking for there to be a _problem_ —”

“Only because certain people’s histories make me feel like there _could_ be—”

“Guys, stow it,” the second person tries to snap. They only come out sounding like they could take a hundred-year nap. “It’s been a long day and it’s getting late. We’re all tired. How about we just run through ‘When You’re Away’ another time or two, then call it a night?”

The other punks chorus at their fearless leader in agreement. As Keith unlocks his door, they start up a mid-tempo song that comes off almost like a ballad. Unlike all their other songs, this one sounds almost decent. There’s a lot less screaming, a lot less wailing and gnashing of their instruments, and a lot more actual music. With more care than he’s shown anything else that Keith has heard in any of the band’s rehearsals, the singer croons the longing, lovelorn lyrics as if they’ve got so much raw emotion pent up inside of their chest that it’s literally killing them. God, it almost sounds like—

No.

No, that’s _stupid_.

Keith slams his door. Probably loud enough for those punks downstairs to hear him. Not loudly enough to derail his own thoughts, though. Not loudly enough to make his brain stop calling up these ghosts of Shiro, as if Keith really needed that right now. Trying to shove them out of his own skull, he crams his stuff for class into his backpack and tugs his fingers through his hair, twisting them up and yanking hard, as if he can rip these obnoxious, unnecessary fancies clean out of his skull.

Which works about as well as asking a goat to write your creative nonfiction essays. Or listening to any of the critique Keith’s gotten from the other students in Dr. Ryner’s class. If he didn’t need to get up in the morning, he’d ask to bum some of Nyma and Rolo’s NyQuil, but as it stands? That’s not a real option.

Breathing deeply doesn’t steady Keith any. It does nothing to soothe his nerves or let him go back to the nice and easy feeling that the marijuana gave him. But at least it gets him through the motions well enough. He toes out of his sneakers. Shucks off his jeans and sweatshirt. Leaves them on the floor, in a tangled heap. Sets his alarm clock for the morning. Flicks off his lamp and plummets, face-first, into his mattress. Curling up on his side, Keith cocoons himself in the blanket. Buries his face in the pillow.

Letting his eyes slip shut, he tries to tune out the rehearsal downstairs — except that would be fruitless, no matter what Keith did. Even if Galaxy Garrison weren’t starting their sorta-ballad one more time, the walls here are so thin that they’d make tissue paper feel downright sturdy by comparison.

The lyrics that the singer belts — _“If moving the stars would bring you back? If fighting harder could’ve made you stay? Then, baby, I’d do all of that and more. Because it’s killing me when you’re away”_ — wallop Keith upside the head and leave him feeling sick. Like he could throw up or worse, start crying again. In earnest, this time. Harder than he did on Nyma and Rolo’s sofa, and without the convenient excuse of some children’s cartoon unexpectedly kicking him in the goddamn heartstrings. Without a dog around to distract him until he feels better, too. He’d be on his own and shit outta luck (— _Yeah_ , he muses, _because that’s so different from where I always end up anyway_ ).

But these idiots said they’re only gonna do this one last repetition of their song, so Keith doesn’t need to yell at them. At least, not right now.

Sighing, he clings to his blanket until his knuckles could slice clean through his skin. He rolls onto his other side and edges himself as far back into the corner as he can. Everything is fine. Or anyway, Keith’s managing things just fine. He’s getting by, exactly as he always has — and hey, who knows? Come morning, he might feel less like screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ……I don’t really know that my apologies are worth very much, when I _am_ sorry for making people scream at Keith and Shiro, but clearly am not sorry enough to simply not have the boys do these things in the first place, but hey. If the boys didn’t make incredibly questionable life-choices, I wouldn’t have anything that I want to write about. What can you do, except continue giving readers my blanket permission to yell at them.


	11. Wednesday/Thursday, October 11th-12th, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The time when Keith and Shiro finally _find each other_. Boys, plz.
> 
> With that said: Shiro briefly deals with an almost-panic attack in this chapter, as well as feeling like he wants to make himself sick. Thankfully, he does not do that to himself.

“So, _why_ exactly are you wearing your Pansy Division crop-top?”

“Hmm?” Poking at his shawarma with a fork, Shiro looks up and blinks at Pidge. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“Not _wrong_ , but…” Pushing her glasses up her nose, she catches the restaurant’s lights and makes them glare off her lenses. It makes her look like she means business — but when she shifts so Shiro can see her eyes, she’s smiling pleasantly. “It _is_ pretty cold today. As nice as I’m sure your admirers find your body, you could very easily get away with _not_ showing off like it’s the middle of summer.”

“True, but on the other hand?” Shiro shrugs and lifts a cube of chicken off his plate. “I lost a bet with your brother.”

“Oh, _God_. He didn’t make you wear that to _work_ , did he?”

“He did, indeed. Which is what I get for betting against Matt in _Dance Dance Revolution_.”

“Hey, you weren’t betting _against_ Matt!” Huffing like an irritated puppy, Lance slouches onto his elbows. He waves his fork around like he’s pointing at an elaborate PowerPoint, detailing why he is completely certain that mermaids must be real. If he doesn’t pay close enough attention, he’s going to cover all three of them in yogurt and dill sauce. But Lance grins so sweetly that it almost makes Shiro’s nerves settle down. “Think of it this way, _bonito_ : you were betting _on_ me. It’s not _your_ fault that my Adderall was wearing off and I let Matt thrash me so badly.”

“Sure.” Bumping her shoulder into Lance’s, Pidge smirks. “Whatever you have to tell yourself, Sharpshooter.”

“Hey! What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Oh, _nothing_. Just that my brother was always gonna beat you. Because he’s a better _Dance Dance Revolutionary_ than you are.”

“So what if he is!” Lance squawks, flushing and screwing up his face. “At least I can dance for _real_. Without stupid flashing arrows.”

“So when are you gonna ask Hunk to take you to a club and spin you right round like a record?”

“I’m _working_ on it, okay?” Hunching in on himself, Lance glowers at his plate as if his dinner owes him several thousand dollars, a magical unicorn pony, and a trip to Disneyland. “I’ve been _trying_ to get through to him. He’s just so — I don’t even, like? I mean, when he gets all down on himself like that? And you just wanna hug him until he complains about how he can’t breathe and tell him that he’s such a genius idiot because you love his smile that could light up this whole town, right? And you’ve been here all along, so why can’t he see—”

“Lance, I’m real happy for you, I’ma let you finish!” Pidge holds up both hands, grinning like she’s feeling so terribly pleased with herself. “But Prince Shiro von Charming wrote the best emotionally devastating, lovelorn pining song of all time. _Of all time!_ ”

“I mean, I don’t know if I’d say that?” In the name of not sighing like an overactive teakettle, Shiro takes a swig of Diet Coke. “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about ‘When You’re Away’ today? And for, like, the past week or so? Something like that. And yeah, tomorrow, I need to talk to Ulaz about my meds more than anything, but I’m still kinda feeling like…”

With Lance and Pidge gawking at him like he’s offering up the secret to world peace, Shiro allows himself to slouch. Shaking out his ponytail, he lets his white fringe droop in front of his face. God, he should have no reason to feel like hiding. He’s out having dinner with two of his friends — two of his band-mates and most favorite people in the entire universe — and they’re talking about something that Shiro doesn’t need to be ashamed of. He’s talking to two of the people he can and does trust with his life.

Sure, he has so many regrets tied up in “When You’re Away” itself. Every line of that song aches and it’s fitting because Shiro agonized about writing everything. In Mitch’s words from coffee-talk last night, the song teems with grief and heartache, but still with the little note of hope that Mitch associates with Shiro. That little spark of _something_ that refuses to give up, no matter how much Shiro feels like he wants to do that. No matter how much easier simply giving up would be. Which is all a pretty amazing thing for someone to mentally link to Shiro — and it would be even if he didn’t like that person as much as he likes Mitch — but it does nothing to calm the mental storm that he’s been brewing for himself.

Twisting his fingers around in his white fringe, Shiro starts, “I’m wondering if we actually _want_ to play that song on Saturday night—”

“Uh, _yeah_?” Pouting deeply, Lance whines. “Of _course_ we do—”

“And I’m _really_ wondering if we might not want to cut it from our Battle of the Band’s set-list—”

“Not a freaking chance, _bonito_. What the cheesing even…” Lance’s makeshift cussing trails off into a string of wordless grumbling. Eyes locked on Shiro, he butts his heel at Shiro’s shin. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize his distaste for the idea. “Seriously, Shiro. What in the holy crowing double-monkey fuck-sticks level of Hell is going _on_ with you?”

“Uh, _that_ was colorful,” Pidge deadpans. “They teach you that at yoga class? Or are you some kinda genius?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what I am, right now. What matters is _you_ —” Lance reaches over to boop Shiro’s nose. “Come on, _bonito_ , what’s eating you about ‘When You’re Away’? You were so proud when you finally pulled it all together. I thought you love that song.”

“Yeah, I do. And I _am_ proud of it — it’s probably the best thing I’ve ever written — but? I don’t know.”

Speaking in the strictest terms, that’s not exactly true. Shiro _does_ know what he’s feeling and what he’s thinking. He knows what ideas he’s been turning over in his mind, on and off, for even longer than the estimate that he just gave his friends. But as he slouches onto his elbows and rubs at the bridge of his nose, Shiro is grateful that his friends know what he really means. He’s grateful that Pidge and Lance understand how, _“I don’t know”_ can function as Shiro’s way of asking for a moment to pull his thoughts together.

He’s grateful for so many other things about them and Hunk, as well. For everyone in their little group and for everything they do together as a band. None of which helps Shiro to corral his thoughts as such? But, as he’s learned the hard way, going over this brief mental list of reasons to be grateful is one of the best ways that he has to keep from getting lost in his own head.

“I was talking to Ryou after my meeting last night,” Shiro explains, once he feels like he has an okay enough handle on himself and on his wayward thoughts. “After letting Mitch and Robin hear our latest recording of the song. Ryou wanted to hear it, too. So, I let him, and then we got talking about some stuff… Not _exactly_ about where the song came from or who I wrote it for? But still. Talking happened. Emotionally messy talking.”

With a sigh, Shiro pushes his bangs back off his face. He squirms slightly, as if Lance and Pidge can see right through him. Like they can read his mind and pick out all the details he put into “When You’re Away” about Keith, and their relationship, and every awful thing that Shiro forced Keith to endure by sheer virtue of being such a complete disaster instead of trying harder to get himself together. Swallowing thickly, Shiro wonders if Lance and Pidge would stay friends with him, if they knew even half of what Shiro did to Keith, back in Chicago.

“I probably wasn’t as explicit with Ryou as I could’ve been? But we had a talk about moving on from things—”

“As in moving on from _Lotor_?” Pidge pipes up. “Because if so, then yes. You absolutely should. Because your brother’s _right_.”

“Whoa, whoa, _wait_.” Glaring daggers at Shiro doesn’t last. Instead, Lance lets his head droop and clenches his hand around his elbow. “I know the song isn’t about your ex, Shirito. So, he’s not involved in you having mixed feelings. _So_ , what the fuck’s gone on with Lotor _this_ time?”

“Nothing serious,” Shiro starts. “Well, no. It’s _serious_. But it’s nothing that’s your business—”

Pidge groans over top of him, cutting him off and rolling her eyes so hard, it’s a miracle that they stay in her head at all. “While we were getting coffee earlier? Shiro got it in his head that it’s his job to fix whatever pain he thinks that Lotor’s in.”

“No, I didn’t. Look, I was talking to Acxa — who is—”

“Which still makes no sense, considering you aren’t dating her stupid bestie anymore—”

“It makes sense to me and Acxa, okay, Katie? She’s still a friend to me, I just…” Shiro swallows thickly and shakes his head. “Telling you _why_ Acxa and I are friends? Is not my call to make. Not by myself. _She_ needs to be involved, too—”

“Okay, okay.” Pidge holds up her hands in faux-surrender. “You two are friends. Got it.”

“My point is: Acxa and I have reasons to talk that have nothing to do with Lotor.”

Narrowing his eyes, Lance hums. “But _did_ you talk about Lotor, though?”

“We did today, yeah. She said she’s stressed. Because he’s been extra difficult lately—”

“Literally when is he ever _NOT_ difficult—”

“And from what her texts said? I thought it sounded like Lotor was at risk of doing something stupid—”

“Lotor’s never at _risk_ of doing something stupid.” Pidge sighs as though this is the dumbest conversation she’s endured all day — which says a lot, considering how she feels about some of her classmates, this semester. Given how she griped while she and Shiro had their coffee, he must be in top form to even vaguely rival the classmates she dislikes. “See, Lotor _can’t_ be at risk of something stupid because the fact of the matter? Is that he _is_ something stupid. Literally always, all the time. And he is _especially_ something stupid for _you, specifically_.”

“Talking to him is even _more_ exceptionally dumb on your part, _bonito_. ‘Cause you know what tends to happen—”

“I thought that Lotor was at risk of _hurting himself_.” Digging around in his hip pocket, Shiro looks from Lance to Pidge, then back to Lance. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t soften his expression, doesn’t give them any wiggle room to think that he is even remotely kidding about how serious he is. “You can check my texts, if you want. Acxa was worried about that possibility, too. All I did? Was reach out to someone I still care about and try to remind him why he doesn’t want to backslide on self-harming. Because that’s what you _do_ when somebody needs help. If you can give it to them, then you have to at least try.”

And because, no matter what Pidge or Lance or Ryou or anyone has to say about the matter, Shiro does still love Lotor. No matter what Shiro does to move on, some part of him may always love that snarky, charming, knife-sharp, purple-ponytailed drama prince, just as some part of him still loves Maurice. Never mind that Maurice abused him. Gaslit him and made him feel like he deserved the pain. Yanked him away from Keith before Shiro could finally get all his feelings out there in the open and find out for sure how Keith felt about him. Maurice put Shiro through no fewer than thirteen different kinds of Hell, pushed him to the edge of an abyss over and over and over again, and made Shiro thank him for the _exquisite privilege_ of being Maurice’s most very favorite fuck-toy.

Yet, for as much as Shiro hates Maurice — as much as he wishes that they’d never met each other — some part of him still loves that monster. Clearly, precedent suggests that Shiro will never be over loving Lotor, not least because Lotor never got close to Maurice’s level of bad and Shiro contributed to the problems they had more than either Pidge or Lance wants to admit. Breaking up with Lotor wasn’t an issue of escaping what Lotor did to Shiro; it was a matter of stopping what both of them did to each other.

Except Shiro doesn’t feel like haggling over those semantics, at the moment. Instead, he keys in his passcode and hands his phone to Lance. As he slouches back onto his elbows, Shiro’s bleached-white fringe wilts over his face again. He blows at it idly, instead of tossing or pushing it aside. The way his hair bounces and taps against his cheek keeps him from twisting himself up in too many knots about the situation. Keeps him from staring at Lance as he peruses the texts, paws through them for whichever answers he thinks he wants.

After a few moments, Lance gently kicks his ankle. “Okay, I’m still reading? But from what I’ve seen so far? Yeah, fine, you didn’t do anything untoward or sexually come on to Lotor or whatever.” He elbows at Pidge’s shoulder. “Which was how _some certain short people_ made it sound—”

“Hey! My concerns are _valid_!” With a pout that looks as young as people often think she is — looks like she wants a unicorn for Christmas, even though she’s right about her concerns being well-deserved — Pidge folds her arms over her chest. Tilting her chair up onto its hind legs, she clarifies, “ _Shiro himself_ says that he and Lotor are bad for each other, right? And that Lotor’s bad for his sobriety. _And_ with how many times they split up and got back together—”

“ _Both_ of you have valid points of view.” Shiro combs his fingers through his white fringe, tucks it behind his ear. “Lance, I appreciate the trust. And you hearing me out about this. But, Pidge? You had fair reason for concern, especially based on precedent—”

“Yeah, but my thing is, _Shirito_?” Returning Shiro’s phone, Lance gives him a tight, nervous frown. “I don’t get _why_ you still care about him—”

 _Because I love him_ , Shiro doesn’t allow himself to cut in with, folding his hands together. _Because I know what kind of pain he’s in—_

“In some ways, it’s even great that you care about people so much? Even when the person getting something out of it is Lotor. But whether you still care or not, I just?” Another bat of sneaker against shin. Which might get annoying, if it didn’t feel like Lance’s current substitute for hugging Shiro like he never intends to let go. “You don’t want him to implode on himself and that’s _fine_. But helping him out _always_ ends up getting bad for _you_ —”

“Is there a question coming in here,” Pidge drawls. “Or are we staging a two-person intervention that I didn’t know about?”

Lance gives her a happy hand and locks his gaze on Shiro. “I don’t care how much you care about him. Why can’t you let Lotor _go_?”

Wringing his hands does nothing to steady Shiro’s nerves. Doesn’t help him feel like he has a better sense of where to go from here, aside from knowing that he can’t keep Lance hanging for too long. If nothing else, making Lance wait will make him antsy, which might throw him off during practice, later.

God, though, Shiro has so many potential answers to that question. So many things that he could share and so many potential holes that he could dig for himself. He could so easily end up forcing himself into a corner, explaining pieces of his history that Lance and Pidge and Hunk haven’t heard about before, aside from a few stray intimations. They’ve heard that Maurice hurt Shiro and that Shiro left Chicago so he could escape from the abuse. They’ve heard that he’s an addict and a recovering alcoholic, and that he has an eating disorder, among more other issues than Shiro wants to count. Any complete answers that Shiro could give — even the potential answers that are only halfway complete — would almost definitely end with Pidge and Lance wanting to hear more. Probably more than Shiro wants to talk about, right now.

Worrying his fingers through his white fringe, Shiro can’t shake off a sensation nagging at the back of his neck. It feels like someone brushing their hand in gentle circles around the top of his spine, rubbing at his skin as if to remind Shiro that he’s safe. In turn, that feeling of phantom fingers sets _something_ alight in the pit of Shiro’s chest. A very tiny something, granted, but still: it’s a spark, which is enough to potentially start a fire. As he sighs and looks from Lance’s impatient face to Pidge’s, that little twist of hope wants _so badly_ for Shiro to believe that something good could come of this.

Which _“this”_ in particular, he has no idea. But Shiro’s stalled for long enough. Taking a deep breath, he tries handing the reins off to his mouth. Even babbling some nonsense would go down more easily than silence.

“It’s not about Lotor, exactly. His own problems are about him, but my approach to them is all on me.” He sits up straight again. Curls a leg up to his chest and props his chin against his knee, which pokes through the unpatched hole in his jeans. Hugging himself around the shin, Shiro says, “Before I got clean, I did a lot of things that I regret. One of the worst and biggest things — the one that Ryou wishes I’d move on about — was the way that I gave up on somebody. After promising him that I wouldn’t, I did exactly that.”

Maybe, as Ryou has pointed out so many times before, this isn’t necessarily the truest version of the story.

Maybe, as Ryou and Ulaz have both suggested more often than anybody wants to put a number on, Shiro is being unfairly hard on himself. Because he hasn’t given up the hope that Keith is out there in the world, having a life and doing well, exactly as Shiro asked him to do in the letter that Maurice made him send to break things off. He hasn’t stopped believing that Keith can really go places, that he can do great things, and that he can make the most of his golden, glimmering potential and have an amazing life without Shiro there to hold him back.

Maybe, as Mitch theorized after a meeting a few months ago, on the heels of Shiro dumping Lotor? Maybe Shiro has no room to say that he gave up on Keith at all. _“You might’ve_ ** _resigned_** _yourself to never seeing that boy you loved again,”_ Mitch told Shiro over their styrofoam cups of coffee. _“But whoever he was, you sure talk about him like you hope you’re wrong about that. And not for nothing, son? But it sounds like you’re still wishing that maybe, he loved you back.”_

But as far as history goes, the fact of the matter is— “I don’t want to get into _all_ of it, right now,” Shiro bites out, trying not to whisper too much. “Point is: I could’ve done more to believe in what I had with this guy. I could’ve done more to believe in him. More to _help_ him when he needed me. But when push came to shove, I gave up. I chose pills and liquor instead of staying—”

“But you aren’t _on_ pills and liquor anymore!” Lance all but pleads, “If it’s all about staying sober, then why isn’t that enough?”

“Because it isn’t all about my sobriety. That was a part of this before, but…” Shiro quirks his shoulders. “I don’t want to make a choice like that again. Or do that to anybody else. Whatever Lotor and I do to each other? No matter that I don’t want to be with him romantically anymore? I don’t want to give up on him. On the chance for him to get—”

Down on the table, Shiro’s phone _ding!_ s and buzzes with a text.

He fumbles for it. Grabs it up. God, Ryou must have perfect, twin-think timing, reaching out to him right now. As if, even on the other side of town and buried up to his eyes in getting ready to secure the research grants that he, Sven, and Slav are going out for, Ryou can _tell_ when his Kashi needs him. As if he knows exactly when Shiro needs a shot in the arm from his brother.

Except the text is not from Ryou; it’s from Lotor.

The message’s only contents: the emoji of smiley face blowing a kiss with a heart beside it, and a picture.

Shiro cringes as soon as the image loads on his screen. Unfortunately, he still recognizes his ex-boyfriend’s junk. His heart plummets into the pit of his stomach. Jesus, his skin crawls like he’s got insects trapped beneath it.

God help him, looking at the dick pic makes bile rise in his throat. Teases Shiro with the idea that he could bolt to the men’s room — wait, no, that would be a dead giveaway to Pidge and Lance. He could make up an excuse. Make himself leave calmly. He doesn’t have a toothbrush with him, but he has long fingers and enough patience to trip his gag reflex, and really, wouldn’t purging feel so much better? If he threw up, that might help him lose the feeling like he has _vipers_ tightening around his lungs and an invisible hand clamping down around his throat. It’s been so long, and hasn’t he been ever so good about _staying clean_. He’ll be a full year sober and get his chip on Friday. Why can’t he give himself a treat like this, and go purge, one last time—

“Help me. Please.” Inhaling sharply, Shiro shoves his phone at Lance’s face. “Lotor sent me a dick pic. I need you to delete it. _Please_.”

“On it, man.” Not that this stops Lance from paling and pouting at Shiro in obvious concern. Or from telling Pidge to move to Shiro’s side of the table. As she fusses her fingers through Shiro’s hair, Lance gently prods with, “ _Shirito_? I’m telling Lotor off, but you? How are _you_ feeling?”

“Like sticking my fingers down my throat would fix literally all my problems for me.” Scrubbing a hand down his face, Shiro can’t believe how easily that admission comes out. Trying to rein his breaths back in — trying to make them slow, and deep, and even, exactly like Ulaz has shown him — Shiro allows himself to sigh. “But also like I _know_ that it won’t help me. And like I don’t _want_ to do it. And like I have no idea how _not wanting my ex to hurt himself_ means that I want a picture of his _junk_.”

“It doesn’t mean that,” Pidge agrees, dropping her head onto Shiro’s shoulder. Curling both of her hands around one of his, she gives him a gentle squeeze. “Just keep breathing, okay? You’ve got this, and you’ve got us. How do we get through things?”

“Together. Like always.” Nodding, Shiro ignores Lance asking if he wants to take his Xanax. “We’re always stronger together.”

 ***** ***** *****

Practice goes… Well, it sure goes.

Between Lotor sending that picture and Pidge’s looming midterms, Shiro doesn’t expect that much. They’ve had practices under worse circumstances, sure. But they’ve also had practices under _better_ circumstances, and as the night wears on, Shiro can’t shake off the feeling that there’s _something_ different in the air tonight. Neither better nor worse, simply _different_ in ways that refuse to let him pin them down and put any words on them. Almost like there might be rain, but the weather reports have predicted that they’re not in for any until next week.

Although Shiro didn’t get so far gone into anxiety that he needed his Xanax, when the gang decides to take their first break, he doesn’t have the edgy feeling. He notices it in the all-night drugstore a couple blocks away from the garage where they hold practices. While Lance hums “Uptown Funk” and picks out everybody’s favorite drinks, Shiro meanders through the aisle full of snacks. Pretzels and Gummi Bears for Hunk, harvest cheddar Sun-Chips for Lance, an entire tube of sour cream and onion Pringles for Pidge because she can and will eat the whole thing herself. As ever, Shiro has to haggle with himself about what he wants, but it’s still so… Other than what he’s used to.

Nudging Shiro’s shoulder with his own, Lance sighs. Sodas, juices, and bottled water rattle around his basket — but he gives Shiro another moment of silence before pointing out, “We _do_ need to get back to practice, _bonito_. Sooner being better.”

With a quick nod, Shiro drags his hand back through his bangs and slouches at the hips.

Lance hums, draws it out like he’s considering this situation quite intensely. “D’you need me to give you permission to eat or something?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Maybe I will some other day,” he mutters, scrubbing his fingers up and down his temple without really kneading. “Right now, I’m hung up on whether I want pretzels or trail-mix. Or do I maybe want to look in the freezer and see what kind of ice cream they have. Except about food, I still feel a little bit…” Quirking his shoulders, Shiro gives Lance a throaty, noncommittal sound. “And I don’t wanna derail practice because I need to talk myself down from throwing up again.”

“Well, I know that I don’t trust trail-mix from most places, so I know how I’d vote on that one.” The basket’s contents clatter again as Lance sets them on the floor.  Once he’s freed up his hands, he sidles up behind Shiro, presses against Shiro’s back, and snakes his arms around Shiro’s waist. “‘s this okay? You can tell me if it’s not.”

“Nah, you’re fine, Lancey-Lance.” Even as he leans back into the hug, Shiro narrows his eyes at the shelves of (mostly) junk food. “It’s too bad they don’t have any of those strawberry granola bar things you can get at Stop-N-Shop. That’d solve the issue for me, easy.”

“Maybe let’s put those on the grocery list and stock up on them, next time.” Grumbling softly, Lance puts his chin on Shiro’s shoulder. This probably isn’t comfortable for his neck, but Lance squeezes Shiro around the waist as if he doesn’t mind. “Too bad Matt has our stupid cooler right now. We could’ve brought stuff from home and saved everyone the trouble.”

“Did he ever bother explaining _why_ in the world he needed it so bad tonight?”

“All he told me was some garbage about him and Te-Osh needing somewhere to hide a severed human head.”

Snorting, Shiro shakes his head again. “That sure is a very uniquely Matthew Holt response.”

“It’s a very uniquely _garbage_ response, is what it is, _bonito_.” Lance blows a raspberry as if this should settle the matter and nullify all debate. “‘s there anything I can do to help you pick something? ‘Cause we’ve got practice. And there’s some lady down at the other end of the aisle who probably thinks we’re fucking.”

“Mmm, that sounds like her problem, not ours.”

“Well, obviously. And thanks for agreeing with me. But my point about practice, though?”

Shiro rubs his shoulders against Lance’s chest as if this makes his point for him. But just in case Lance needs to hear it, Shiro adds, “It’s taken me way too long to get comfortable with this kind of physical intimacy again. Since I’m having a _good_ day for hugging, and touching, and letting myself be comfortable with my friends? I want to enjoy it.”

“Can’t argue with that logic. ‘Specially not when it means _I’m_ the one who gets to hug you.” Regardless, Lance makes a noise that wants so badly to sound Pensive And Serious. “What about a box of non-strawberry Nature Valley bars and then you and me split ourselves a pack of Starbursts? You can have dibs on all the pink ones.”

It’s not the ideal set-up. Not the ideal way of handling things. However, considering that they can’t get to Shiro’s ideal solution — not without derailing their practice even further so they can drive uptown and hope they get to Stop-N-Shop before it closes — Lance’s idea addresses the issue well enough. Gets them back to the garage, back to Hunk and Pidge, back to practice. Sure, they need to rein Team Punk back in and get them to stop gossiping about the people who live upstairs, but once everyone’s reconvened, they slip right into working on their music.

Except that it doesn’t feel like work to Shiro. Not really. Calling the music _“work”_ implies certain things that, at the moment, simply are not true. _“Work”_ isn’t the right word to describe what happens when his fingers fly across the strings and frets, moving by muscle memory and leaving Shiro free to feel the music striking all the way down in his bone marrow, down in the deepest, darkest, best hidden crevices of his soul. It’s like he’s channeling the music instead of playing it. Like his voice has a will of its own and yearns to put all of Shiro’s feelings out there for him.

As he, Hunk, Pidge, and Lance go over songs from Saturday night’s proposed set-list — minus their punk cover of a non-punk song because Lance and his Twitter followers haven’t picked it out yet — Shiro slips into the sort of groove that, normally, he can’t get into without a few solid hours worth of concentrated effort. A few solid hours of tuning out the rest of the world, shirking all other duties and responsibilities, and ignoring everything that’s not his voice and his guitar. Used to be easier to get himself so wrapped up in the music, back in Chicago. But in retrospect, Shiro likely only felt that way because he was never sober. He got out of his own head, sure enough. Toward the end of things, he got out of his own body on more than one occasion — but even at his most intoxicated, none of that alleged relief came halfway close to this.

Hard-won and perpetually precarious, sobriety has given so many things back to Shiro, including something that the drugs and Cuervo never could have given him: the unfiltered rush of finding himself in the music like he’s doing. Of letting his own self-censorship fall away, tumbling off his shoulders like an ill-fitting jacket, and giving himself room to truly flourish.

It’s almost as good as the soft, pink, blushing, fuzzy feelings that crop up when Shiro’s got a crush. Almost as good as the way his soul caught fire and flared up like fireworks when things were going well with Lotor. Almost as good as the way that Shiro burned with Keith.

Unfortunately, getting in the zone like this makes Shiro lose track of time. He gets swept up in the music, in how much more easily he breathes while having this release. The band doesn’t call their second break until Hunk and Pidge both drop off in the middle of “I Love You, Man,” and grouse about how _they_ need their shot for some fresh air, now. How it’s _their_ turn to run over to the drugstore and buy something so they can get access to the restrooms, because no one wants to barge into the one upstairs. After all, the folks who live here might not appreciate that and the band’s already at risk of being a nuisance with their rehearsals.

None of which Shiro can argue with unless he wants to be both cruel and a hypocrite. Besides, he and Lance should probably give their fingers a rest. Do some of their stretches, rather than going at their strings. It’s more than past the time for that.

As Hunk and Pidge toss on their hoodies and bounce off down the street, Lance digs around in the van for his and Shiro’s squishy stress-balls. They’re part and parcel of how Shiro prefers to take his breaks, something nice to get his hands around and keep his fingers limbered up. For all Lance thought the idea sounded weird, at first, he’s come to love this method, too.

Yet, when Lance holds the black squishy stress-ball out toward him, Shiro hums and shakes his head. Which makes Lance sigh and invite himself to sit beside Shiro on some old crates that they’ve turned into a makeshift bench. Swinging his long legs almost looks careless. The way he squeezes the stress-ball _almost_ looks like Lance is genuinely taking a beat, relaxing, and _not_ worrying himself into the nearest sinkhole over the welfare of everyone in the band.

Then, Shiro starts strumming out a tune that both of them know very well — the saxophone melody from “Careless Whisper,” but adapted to fit Shiro’s black electric six-string — and Lance groans so loudly that all the angels in Heaven can probably hear him.

“Should I take that as you wanting to call it a night, _bonito_?” A shake of the head makes Lance huff like he’s offended. “Come on. You had a rough day. And a pretty long one, too. You’ve got therapy with Ulaz tomorrow, and a pretty big deal talk to have about your Xanax. It’s totally fair to call practice off for now.”

“You and Plaxum are opening the record store, but I haven’t heard _you_ saying you want to call it.” Which sounds petulant enough that Shiro cringes. He doesn’t stop playing, but he does give Lance a small, apologetic smile. “We probably should call it soon. But not yet.”

Lance takes a moment to think, then nods and supposes that Shiro’s probably right. It doesn’t taste like much of a victory, but at least Lance lets Shiro keep venting out whatever tangled knot of vaguely “Careless Whisper”-adjacent feelings are going on for him tonight. As Shiro goes on, Lance seems content to sway in time with the song, periodically humming along but mostly giving the floor to Shiro. Giving Shiro the space he needs to work a few things out so that he can get any kind of effective fix on them.

“ _Tonight the music seems so loud_ ,” Shiro croons, trying to ignore the way that Lance goes still. “ _I wish that we could lose this crowd!_ ”

Lance furrows his brow. Squints like he can tell that something’s up and he’s not sure he likes it.

Pressing on, Shiro belts, “ _Maybe it’s_ ** _better_** _this way_. _We’d_ ** _hurt_** _each other with the things we want to say!”_

Grumbling softly, Lance trudges over to where they put the drinks and snacks.

“ _We could have been so_ ** _good_** _together!_ ” Shiro pulls the words up from somewhere deep. “ _We could have lived this dance forever!_ ” Granted, he always does that, with this song more than any others (excluding ones that he wrote himself). “ _But now, who’s gonna dance with me? Please stay_ …” Tonight, though, he might as well eviscerate himself. He’s digging that deeply for the emotions that come out in his singing. “ _And I’m never gonna dance again. Guilty feet have got no rhythm_ —”

“Nope,” Lance snaps. “Stop.” A granola bar whacks Shiro gently on the nose. “ _Eat_.”

Although he pulls a face about it, Shiro takes his guitar off his shoulders and rests it on its stand. Trying to catch all the crumbles as he digs into his snack, as always with Nature Valley bars, proves more or less pointless. But Lance wouldn’t interrupt Shiro while he’s singing without a very good reason. Once he has the first bar in the package down, Lance hands over the bottle of water with the black hair-tie around its middle, singling it out as Shiro’s. (Likewise, Lance’s bottle has a blue hair-tie, Hunk’s has a yellow one, and Pidge’s has one that’s neon green.)

“Sooooo,” Lance drawls as Shiro takes a good, long drink. “How’re you feeling?”

“If I say that I don’t know, are you gonna hit me with another granola bar?”

Apparently not — but instead, Lance shoots Shiro a _Pointed, Significant Look_ that has, if anything, a negative amount of patience.

“Okay, well… I feel annoyed with Lotor. Because he took me caring about whether or not he self-harms again as a sign that I want to get back together.” Shiro scarfs down another bite of granola bar before he so much as thinks about going on. “I feel annoyed with _myself_ because you had to handle replying to him for me—”

“Dude, you started trying to _‘Patience yields focus’_ yourself out of having a llama-cheesing panic attack.” Huffing softly, Lance bumps his shoulder into Shiro’s and gives him a warm smile. “That’s not a personal failing or whatever. Especially not since you _did_ pull yourself back from that. And you know me, I love to talk. Even if it’s just telling your stupid ex to go fuck himself and leave you alone. Y’know, in a slightly nicer way. As nice as I can ever manage for _Lotor_ , anyway.” 

Shiro nods slowly, but says, “I still feel pretty mixed up about ‘When You’re Away’—”

“Because of emotionally messy, moving on-type reasons?” Lance sighs when he gets another nod. “You wanna talk about it?”

“The guy I wrote the song for? He’s the one I was talking about before.” Taking a long drink of water doesn’t steady Shiro’s nerves, but a few deep breaths keep him mostly centered. “More than anything else? I feel the worst for the way I hurt him. For giving up on him, the way I did.”

Lance arches an eyebrow in disbelief. “Uh, not that you’re _asking_? But I’m pretty sure nothing about that song says you’ve given up.”

“Maybe I didn’t give up on him in spirit, exactly? But choosing pills and liquor like I did…”

Unsure if he needs to sigh or not, Shiro shakes his head. The soft tips of his ponytail barely brush against his skin. Forcing his breaths to stay slow and even, Shiro takes the elastic out of his hair and pockets it. With his locks freed up, he shakes his head again, as much to rouse himself as to get it his hair all loosened up and easy, how he likes it. Shiro doesn’t know for sure that gestures like this do anything to help connect the wires that sometimes come loose inside his skull. But he feels better after shaking his head — not least because Shiro can ruffle his free hand through more hair than his bangs.

“It’s addict stuff, y’know,” he says, lest he leave Lance hanging for too long. “What I’m feeling right now? Maybe not stuff that _only_ another addict would understand, but… Stuff that’s easier to talk about with other addicts.” In case that comes off too harshly, Shiro gives Lance a smile and nudges at his shoulder. “I trust you with the story, Sharpshooter. Or most of me does.”

Lance thinks about it, then smiles back. “Did you write any songs for this guy before?”

“A lot of them, yeah. Mostly before I moved out here, but… Some came after. I wrote _four_ songs for him in rehab.” With a shrug, Shiro gets down another bite of granola bar. “I don’t know if he ever knew? Like, I thought that it was obvious, but at the time, Ryou had to deal with me whining about it. It took him a couple rounds of trying to get through to me, but he finally went, ‘Kashi, maybe he really _can’t_ tell.’” Another bite of granola bar and another swig of water. “Anyway, the guy I wrote ‘When You’re Away’ for? He didn’t know how special he was. And I really, _really_ didn’t help.”

“You were _sick_ , Shirito,” Lance says, in a tone like he’s putting a lot of effort into _not whining_. “You were in _trouble_. And struggling. And did I mention, _sick_. And like, I don’t even know that much about _Maurice_ , but it sure _sounds_ like he put you through _Hell_ —”

“And I think that sounds like a remarkably polite understatement. Or possibly an insult to Hell. Or both—”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Lance groans and lets his head droop onto Shiro’s shoulder. For a long moment, Lance doesn’t clarify what he thinks that he’s just saying. He only sits here at Shiro’s right-hand side, leaning on him in a way that feels more like he’s supporting Shiro. “If the guy you wrote the song for ran out on you? Or if he left you? And you didn’t get closure with him—”

“It wasn’t like that, though. Things between us were… messy. Complicated.” Shiro doesn’t want to sigh — but sometimes, trying to hold it in does more harm then good. As he exhales, his entire body wilts and he needs to shake his head to keep from feeling like he’s too tired to carry on. “Either way, I’m never gonna see him again. Which is Ryou’s point, in the moving on conversation. Even if we haven’t talked about my old flame exactly, it’s all…” 

“We don’t have to keep going about this, if you don’t want to, Shiro.” With a soft huff, Lance gives Shiro’s shoulder a protective nuzzle. “But if you ever _do_ want to talk some more about your mystery guy? You know I’m here to listen, right?”

“Thanks, Sharpshooter. I mean, I know this, but…” Shiro pauses as Hunk and Pidge wander back into the garage. While they back-and-forth at each other about _Cupcake Wars_ , Shiro polishes off his granola bar. “Thanks for reminding me, Lance. And for being here.”

“‘s what I do, man—”

“You do more than occupying space, Lance—”

“Can I offer an opinion on things? Or is that not okay, right now?” Waiting for Shiro’s consent, Lance goes still. Then, he laces his fingers up with Shiro’s free hand as he says, “I feel like maybe we should play the song more, if you’re feeling so messed up about it? Like, maybe I’m wrong. And you can give me the whole, ‘I told you so’ if I am. But ‘When You’re Away’ is so… Like, the way that you feel about it… And with all the work that you put into it…”

Gently squeezing Shiro’s hand, Lance sighs. “I know how much you of yourself put into that song, Shiro. So, you trying to give up on the song? It feels a lot like you giving up on yourself. Which I’m against. For a lot of reasons.”

Even if he wanted to, Shiro couldn’t argue with that logic.

He can’t argue with Lance giving him a hug, either. If Lance hadn’t offered first, Shiro would’ve done it for them.

Even though Hunk and Pidge missed most of the conversation, the sight of Lance and Shiro hugging sends them running over. With a mock-warcry, Pidge jumps into things by hugging Shiro from behind, burying her face in his back. Broad and easily the only one in the band who can give Shiro a run for his money on strength, Hunk comes up on their sides and scoops everyone up into his warm, soft chest. Once everyone’s affirmed how much they care about each other and gotten the need for a group hug out of their collective system, though, it’s time to get this practice wrapped up with a bow.

Unfortunately, things start falling apart after they run through “When You’re Away.” Maybe it’s something about Pidge’s midterms coming up, or maybe it’s getting later than they think. Whatever the reason, though, they keep slipping up on the transition between “As In Fuck You” (one of the songs where the whole band brought something to the lyrics) and “Father Of All Lies” (one of the collaborations between Pidge and Shiro). They botch it so many times that Shiro stops counting them.

Finally, the bubbling tension boils over. Hunk saying, _“Dammit, Lance!”_ should be the biggest clue that everything has dragged on for too long. It should shock everybody into calming down — but trying to make his friends chill out only makes things worse. Only makes Hunk, Lance, and Pidge start digging at each other like a bag full of wet cats. A second attempt at getting his friends to relax is about as effective as throwing gasoline on a forest fire. God, keeping his breaths even, slow, and measured — that’s about the only thing that keeps Shiro from falling apart.

Sure, they could go harder with their insults. They _could_ do so much worse by each other. Still, as Shiro idly strums through “When You’re Away,” he wishes that he had _some_ idea of what to do. _Some_ idea of what might bring them back together as a band and get them through the rest of the night, even just packing up so they can go home—

_“Do you assholes have_ **_ANY_ ** _idea what fucking_ **_time_ ** _it is?!”_

The question rings out through the garage, clanging against the walls and the high ceiling. Shiro gasps. Not from the intrusion into practice. Not from how loudly this new voice crashes in. His breath hitches behind his Adam’s apple because _that voice_ … Jesus, there’s no way, is there… It can’t possibly be—

“I said, ‘Do you assholes have any idea what fucking time it is’?” Hugging himself around the chest, the interloper steps out of the threshold that leads to the stairs. “It’s not a hard question, thanks.”

Ever himself, Lance tries to clap back at whoever this person is. Tries to insist that the band only knew about Rolo and Nyma, the pair who live upstairs with the dog. He and the interloper are both being loud, Lance more so because exhaustion strips him of anything he has that vaguely resembles impulse-control. As they verbally snipe at each other — as the interloper gnashes his teeth and glares daggers at Shiro’s friends — all Shiro can do is stare at him. Take in the sight he cuts and try to force whatever’s happening to make logical sense. _Any_ logical sense, even if it’s a kind of logical sense that Shiro doesn’t end up liking.

Because this shouldn’t be happening, should it? Now? After all this time?

After everything that Shiro’s been through since April 15th, 2013, when Maurice showed up at his old apartment in Chicago with a mind to have Shiro all to himself… After every backslide, every slip off the wagon, every time that Shiro’s felt like giving up on recovery because getting well felt too big and too difficult a task… After how many times he’s told himself that this would never happen, how _could_ it? How could the last person Shiro ever expected to see again actually be here, yelling at his band-mates?

That _voice_ is so impossibly familiar, though… And the interloper looks so much like him, with that mop of black hair and that switchblade glimmer in the eyes. Maybe not as sharp around the edges as Shiro remembers, but it _has_ been four-and-a-half years. Shiro’s shoulders sag as he traces his eyes up and down the interloper’s compact frame… Those long, pale legs, mostly shown off because he’s only wearing black boxers… Then, there’s that t-shirt. It’s black too, with a Dolly Parton album cover screenprinted on the chest. Against a golden backdrop with a guitar slung over her shoulder, Dolly gives the viewer an enigmatic look. Above her head sit fancy, bright red letters, spelling out, _“I Will Always Love You.”_

Shiro swallows thickly. It doesn’t make breathing any easier. Doesn’t make Shiro’s teeth stop chattering. Doesn’t make his pulse steady. The longer Shiro looks at this guy, the more his heart flails like Shiro shoved a wet fork into a power outlet. No one else in Shiro’s life has ever loved Dolly Parton more than Keith — but what if he’s reading too much into things again? What if he’s seeing significance that isn’t really there? Shiro could easily be distorting the picture, making himself see what he wishes—

“What’s next, man?” Lance crows, barking out one of his blustering laughs. “Are you gonna tell us to get off of your lawn?”

“I don’t _have_ a lawn, you idiot,” the interloper snarls. “I _barely_ have an apartment.”

Another gasp. Shiro can’t help it. In the space where his brain’s supposed to be, everything’s gone blank. The only feeling he has is the sound of white noise. Everything’s cold. Flash-frozen. Until the interloper — until _he_ — turns to face Shiro and his entire body flushes warm and pink.

Looking at those wide, blue-violet eyes, cloaked in those long, thick lashes? Watching _him_ wrinkle his nose and squint at Shiro’s face? Shiro could swear that he hears music. A bright, jangling, piano-heavy country-pop tune and Dolly Parton trilling, _“Here you come again, just when I’m about to make it work without you. You look into my eyes—”_

“Keith?” Shiro’s voice comes out tight and soft. His brow knots itself up. His lips won’t stop quivering. “Keith, right? Keith Kogane?”

Those still-familiar eyes go wide. The color drains from Keith’s cheeks as his shoulders hunch. He looks like somebody just punched him. But Shiro can’t judge, not when he feels like he might be sick. Keith hugs himself tighter. Radiating disbelief, he tries not to shake his head.

It still might not be him, though. Shiro could be wrong. It _must_ be Keith, but Shiro hesitates, in case this _isn’t_ —

“…Shiro?” Keith says, voice barely above a whisper.

 _Oh my God_ —

A smile bursts forth, spilling all over Shiro’s face. Making his chest feel lighter than it has in years.

Shiro tears his guitar off of his shoulders and hands it off to Lance. His body’s trembling like he could pass out at any second. Like he’s fighting to keep himself from utterly dissolving. Still, Shiro scoops Keith up and tugs him into a fierce hug. He takes deep breaths of Keith’s hair, clinging to him like putting any space between their bodies could ruin everything, could make Shiro wake up to learn that this was all a dream, was all him grabbing at impossibilities and torturing himself.

When Keith squirms in his arms, Shiro mumbles an apology. But he keeps on hugging Keith. No, God, no. Shiro can’t give up on this contact. Can’t give up on this second chance that he was never supposed to have. Can’t give up on Keith, the way he did before.

Barely fending off a sob, Shiro whispers, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

It takes Keith a moment. But patting Shiro between the shoulder-blades, he says, “I didn’t… Me neither.”

There could be something more baked into his tone, or maybe not. Shiro can’t tell.

All he knows for sure is simple: whatever he does, he cannot let Keith slip away from him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t really Galaxy Garrison’s style, musically, but for an idea of what “Careless Whisper” sounds like without the saxophone line, [Seether has a cover that’s really pretty good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7imqO-OBVk).

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over on [tumblr](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/) too, if you want. Or hey, I’m also on Discord (amorremanet#5500). ♡
> 
> Anyway, I took a week off from all of my other projects and obligations to get this out of my system, and now, I really need to go get back to finishing yet more overly long fics that I could easily just title, “Have I mentioned lately that I enjoy hurt/comfort and making Shiro cry? Because I enjoy those things very much indeed. :3”


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